A flower—no I mean one who—unplucked—flows / the o as in holy—not ouch


When I was 5—asleep on a fold-out couch—my cousin Clint Gordon 16 sleeping there too

I woke up he was in me hurting me from behind I tried to get up he held me down if you tell they’ll send you to the bad place

It probably happened to him the same way—about the same age—maybe even the same words

I wouldn’t want to be literary here—but I wasn’t awake in my life until then—not aware of myself as existing

My first me is this breach—a pain—the conviction that I am dirty—guilty

Words have their smells—they hit home


Try to think of the plucked stem as a crick—a creek—scared—in flood—lifted out

A three-leggéd meat-eating horse of a river—contorting—above lots & concessions


Cling to pathetic details: the Alcazar Hotel Vancouver Xmas 79 2nd floor corner

Contemplate foaming drizzle—down onto Pender—only a ballad mutters now

Stumbling those final tilted blocks into the bindle-stiff harbor—as if thrown / of hork & lard

My banjo’s neck had cracked on the train—I threw a Bic as hard as I could against the wall
& its plastic splintered

Later I crawled around—drinking from the bottle—hunting that pen’s dark inner tube—O mighty quill—it wrote now—a pin-feather bendy to hold

No go the hotel / no go the song—or the cling-to—the long memory: gulls above slop near
the Sea-View


Under what you can get away with—is the better line—what you can't get away from

Between sentimentalism—& misanthropy—is the worse mistake—writing to please

This fiddle-wind I tinker at squealing like goes: Don't eat & read—come un-Protestant-ing


I am always half / in love with the early / photos of at least / 3 women poets

Shame honed to defiant beauty—& often I am right: they have been abused also

Not only women—all of us who were made to—we were helpless—we absorbed fault

We who blinded half-truths—excoriated normalcy—told disgust a joke

To not end up in a ditch—to not go bonkers—to not become abusers—we had to tell

When we finally meet—we are safe dry old white flags—with these great eyes

Our lettered-halves long sunk deep into the red cork of the page

Our thumbed guide-feathers whistling


Not holy—better say hardworn-sacred


Phil Hall leaves the machine alone. Everything escapes him.

Published On
: July 1, 2012
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/120701a.htm







Volume 6, Issue 4
Canada Day, 2012

Not Guilty

Phil Hall

The Selected Kid Curry
Matt Rader

José Hierro
(Trans. Nick Thran)

For an Aesthete

José Hierro
(Trans. Nick Thran)

Why I'M Not a Poet

by Amy Bergen

canada day
by Forget Magazine

The Latin for Hunger
by Matt Rader

Lily and the Ways of Women
by Kim Bannerman

Feb 12, 2001 - Present

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6


Melville Street
Vancouver, B.C.
V6E 3V6


ISSN: 1710 193X

Copyright © forgetmagazine
all rights reserved,
all content © the authors