The Republic of Naught
Poems by Jay McLeod
www.philistinepress.com
Contents Trash Notes from Abroad During Hurricane Season To the Dictator’s Daughter At the End of a Line Rateshock Shoppers Planes, Trains, and Dishpits Last Time We Talked The Scholar The Dishwasher’s Last Will and Testament Artie Don’t Work Back in the City Rosemary Walter Lives on the Edge of the World The Rime of the Ancient Chimney Sweep Saturday, 2007 Success perhaps by the end of my working life the hockey players will be off strike The Dishwasher’s Chant Things to Do Before I’m 30 The Republic of Naught
Published by Philistine Press, 2010 All poems © Jay McLeod Cover photograph by Adriano Zanni
www.philistinepress.com www.philistinepress.com
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Trash At the end of the day It all amounts to the same Tread lightly Stalker-azzi The road to bling-bling Is paved with good intentions A car in the swimming pool A series of revelations in the supermarket Fliers Feel the almighty love of Dr. Filth Rain down Superstar alimony Millionaire child support For drafted actors and actresses The kings and queens of canoodling Hard rock goners South beach marauders Lottery winners Drowning in accolades It can happen that fast The supermarket Is the heart of commerce Many folk write letters and e-mails Of support and diligently Follow the sitcoms And reality shows
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Notes From Abroad During Hurricane Season they're sleeping on their roofs to get out of the water a couple of lean months at least half a world away we bicker about municipal politics and "The Return of the Sequels" ever myopic held in thrall by failed applications character assassinations faked celebrity weddings a puppet government fallen to insurgents the hatchet man in another country living off the rented time of soldiers and pollsters it seems anything but real from here all the worlds a gas when your home's washed away and you haven't the wages to rebuild at least the weather's pleasant there most of the time meanwhile we maintain radio silence we watch the damage in advance the hurricane's path in the space of a single day via satellite several thousand swept out to sea failed by geography tropical out-ports the men and women a generation now disappeared from the edge of the world beyond the verges of anything we know or would care to watch for longer than ten consecutive minutes
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To the Dictator’s Daughter Cleopatra on T.V The dictator's daughter Is pleading for understanding Notwithstanding A change of heart Your everyday warmonger Illegal combatant As for me I've got no car No Swiss bank account Or a jet to Brazil There's a CSIS agent in the apartment next door Monitoring my every cough Got a get-out-of-jail-free card and a ticket to ride Meanwhile On TV the dictator's daughter is begging for leniency Railing against NORAD As for me I'll live off the land Go mad Die young like Tom Thomson Become a wholesaler in vestiges and reminiscences Like throwing haymakers at a counterpunch A kings' ransom in crow You can't hold down what you never found Imelda Marcos Pleased to meet'cha They're coming for me Hoser of fortune Going to knock down my spider-hole I'm feeling charitable Down and out at the Laundromat As free as a roll of American quarters
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At the End of a Line From the end of a line you’ll call Requesting Something basic. I will borrow your manner Politely Murmuring something Cryptic About the weather here Or the inconsistencies of the higher ups’ marketing strategy As we haggle over the price Over what must surely be an Eiffel Tower Or some prime swampland In Cape Breton. For my part, I will quiz you for discounts from light years away. For your part, You may wish to speak with my superiorsTough! This is not a democracy, friend. It is always midnight. It is always raining. We will each have something in one another’s world view Confirmed Before quitting each other Along the Jersey Turnpike on a cell phone Or the former dictators’ Gallows Global denizens At the end of a long, nearly interminable line. You could be in India. I could be on Mars. In thinking so, neither of us would be wrong.
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Rateshock Shoppers you don't know how he does it business class traveler platinum Amex wants a GM car in Canberra next January and a hotel room with a view of the pool he can't believe what you're telling him that's rate-shock he says "buddy business is bad, it's killer" he's from Florida, of course which I have always imagined as a trailer park next to Disney World beside a golf course all the ching you can snort a piece of Paradise Pie but for the occasional serial killer or hurricane how many more will be dead by then the madman on the plane the wild-eyed activist the insurgent with the video camera but not this guy as for me I'll be back East shovelling the driveway paying down my degree that's sticker shock the toast of NAFTA strange bedfellows make strange business as yet to be outsourced
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Planes, Trains, and Dishpits I walked forty-five minutes each day to wash dishes for more than a year when I dropped out of school the walk home seemed even longer this was usually cause I’d stop frequently to sit on benches and stare at the stars and the river and occasionally nothing in particular After I got back into school I thought I had it made and then found the call centre four years went past an instant that stretched into eternity of bussing biking walking and bumming rides finally I worked up the wherewithal to skip the country altogether I’ve been taking planes every year or so since then and I still don’t know how to drive a fucking car
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Last Time We Talked The last time we talked Your fangs were at my neck And I was dying to let you in Last time we talked I was much smaller than this And much younger A spectacular failure I was christened with ignorance Now you've got some dishes to wash Race you to the bottom The last time we talked It was Captain Overtime Cheap thrills A leave of absence At behest of the management Deject on the block And hangdog summer days For the neighbourhood type It was psyche-ops A clove of garlic Operation: Elvis And the drums of war We chased each other around the apartment Grandstanding Atlantic trash Grafting the skin of the scam
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The Scholar He’s the quizzical sort Has a bachelor’s in classics Reads Virgil and Herodotus Born millennia too late What he lacked in marks, he made up for with effort But not enough for his Masters Has a middling novel tucked away in his dresser Perpetually half-finished Keeps adding pages Can't figure the ending Keeps misplacing the characters Sweeps up at the University When not driving taxi Listens to symphonies at top volume As he flies around town Romances dead languages Feels slighted by the world at large The years yet to be spent Paying down his loans Trying to make the rent Goes home once per year Right around Christmas Feels unfairly compared To his successful younger brotherA semi-pro hockey playerHe paces the streets of his small townThe scourge of the AcropolisLeaves as quickly as possible As courtesy will allow Falls asleep on the train Imagines the Atlantic as the Mediterranean Nearly burned through his twenties Shoe leather and credit Dreams of less lacklustre days Job interviews in Toronto And women fascinated by his mind Without regard for his career Thus far unable to penetrate The closed casket of the Canadian cultural industries The years spent chafing at the bit The world of ideas A bit like Raskolnikov just before He off-ed that old lady Considers a career in the military
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But can’t do the push-ups Speaks Latin when the bill collectors call“Attenuo accipio argento”That is to say“I have no money”
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The Dishwasher’s Last Will and Testament Back in the day He was a real whiner A barely published Seldom laid Never paid kind of writer Dropped acid and acted out Scribbled in a notebook Muttered to himself He was six-five And just a hundred forty pounds Had a buzz cut, but wasn’t a skinhead He meant to say nice things But they came out mangled When he drank, it was all he could do To keep from getting beaten up or arrested The nights he walked home Wanting to die But for the Grace of God And a couple of friends That girl he worked with From the fast food restaurant They used to be tight She said, Let’s put this movie Out of its misery Now she is a medical student He pushes a broom Full-time They have coffee every once in awhile He liked bits of “Ulysses”, but hated “The English Patient” Those shows you wrote about Now seem to have happened to a different punk In another province Earned his bachelors By the skin of his teeth Got his Masters in What-The-Fuck-Ever
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Sometimes I miss that little bastard In spite of myself That guy might be gone But I’m still writing his story
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Artie Artie takes the bus to the mall each morning at eleven a civil servant who opted for early retirement now a cell phone and the bathroom serve as his office pulls up a bench until the pub opens sports jogging pants and last year's runners frequently polluted weathers family and workers kids bound for school Jehovah's Witnesses plebs with delusions of empire thwarted bourgeoisie he's one of those whose mind goes North and his paycheck goes South a former husband and step-father a one-time nervous wreck and holiday maker he can spot a fake from twelve paces at high noon the boozer opens its gates shooters blazing a roll of wooden nickels now it grows dark before seven he takes a new tack brand of draught he can't afford both cable and smokes on his pension he's overly deferential to the bartender's admonishments the different languages the chatter of commerce tries to make a new girlfriend she says "Come on now, Artie" tells everyone he has to quit he says "I wouldn't be with me either, Laney" he reads the paper tickles the slots takes the bus home at nine long enough to pass out how often he comes here how seldom on top
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Don’t Work There’s no jobs in this town You need a degree Just to get past Dishwasher The line cooks are bilingual The sous-chefs have PhDs There’s no employment in this city Check the human resources: Answering phones is available So is light clerical You’d also do well To play the slots Until hitting the jackpot Performing stunts for passersby On King St Or racing your shitbox down Queen Until you get to Indianapolis or Monte Carlo The local hiring firms And temp agencies Have their work cut out for them I’m going to stand here Passing out My phone number Until the mayor or manager or major himself Calls To ask if I can start At anything This coming Monday
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Back in the City Back in the city Glad to be back And you feel it hasn't been Half as long as all thatThe girl at the bar Actress, acrobat Wants to be seen, Playing invisible, kind of at war, "we" and "she", same as before, and things haven't changed much back in the city -"ah, excuse', madame, enchente'z, pleased to be eh-ah-" and so you will similarly have to wait staying on keel "right out of it, eh" nearly off balance and it hasn't been long enough yet to lose your sea legsit's hard to stand being away but then it works out for the girl and for everybody and outside the stars burn as if in her eyes, the tips of a compass, the ends of a leaf, wherever they catch, they take
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Rosemary She sits at her desk, singing quietly She sings "tra-la-la, my darling" Even though there's nobody around to hear Cutting out pictures from the week's papers And faces out of magazines Trying to turn trash into something worthwhile It's the middle of the night She's talking to Americans The people she's cutting out Don't know her, neither do The people she's talking to They don't know she's over fifty And she makes eight seventy-five Her husband was bad with money But he was a wonderful man Until he passed away She lives alone and she needs this job She keeps a scrapbook at home Full of people that she'll never meet She sings to herself all the time Trying to make her life into something sensible
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Walter Lives on the Edge of the World Walter lives on the edge of the world By the syringe at the doorstep And the queue of kitchen mice This used to be a livery stable Neither a slave nor employed He’s semi-retired His afternoons spent Stalking historical figuresBilly the Kid to Brian Mulroney One day he’ll catch the car that will take him To Calgary I was insubstantial Watching him there From the depths of my hash Ah fuck it, I was dead sober. But I shouldn’t have been. And neither should he.
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Sea Change The thrill worked My nails down to the quick Sun shines behind the clouds Fickle lass, pragmatic How we placate ourselves Waiting for the sea to change
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The Rime of the Ancient Chimney Sweep Caterwauling Albatross Out all night Heart jangling Soldier of misfortune Suffers the slings and arrows Of outrageous bullshit Sweeping up at the bowling alley For some extra quid He resembles your least favourite uncle Wears his nerves on his sleeve Veteran layabout Seasoned ne'er-do-well 'Tis the season To check your ticker Keeps track of American weather On American T.V Even though he's never been South for a day Out comes the white flag A season of repeats Armchair general Wrapped in dulse By turns a seaweed merchant Partly cloudy Terror alert- yellow-elevated The bad old days seem so far away And still some things Don't seem to change Don't bear repeating Checks his ticket Still no jackpot Got permanent dust in his jacket And a perma-cough Positively bronchial Waiting for his ship to arrive Slaked with hoarfrost Got a smorgasbord of porn At home Jenna Jameson + Traci Lords Still single at forty Gets misty eyed to think of it Irish eyes are rheumy Phlegmatic From staring down a pipe Muckraker He grits through his silts
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He'll have to own up To half a million false starts It's not glamorous work but somebody has to do it
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Saturday, 2007 They interfaced beautifully All over the bar: Lawyers in love, Cyborgs on the sauce They exchange fake names And then they get off Every nights’ a brand-new Cold call She says “Let’s go back to my coffin” It’s never been so crowded. He’s hedging his bets Laying down in traffic He’s from the South but likes the North’s chances. Collection agents in love It’s Christmas in the meat market Questions like presents Shimmering baubles Fanatics without ideology Pack the boozer to the rafters without regard for nation Or century
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Success The smell of printers' ink wafts from the newsstand Greenbacks freshly minted I feel like a success When I see Guys dressed exactly like me In the pages of glossy American magazines My leather jacket Burlap sackcloth shirt Collar turned up Against the elements Jeans and sneakers worn right out I'm the real thing Dressed for three times the price As one of these fashion plates You may have seen me before Begging for change On the corner of King Street Success, burst at the seams
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perhaps by end of my working life the hockey players will be off strike the teenaged millionaires are going on strike they make seven figures per annum on average it just isn't enough to be set for life for Lord Stanley and companymeanwhile I'm schlepping for four hundred a week after the luxury tax EI, CPP and Dental age twenty-five the picture of health without a skate to stand on MVP of the stop-gap league paycheck hermetically sealed oozing with privilege the right to walk out and find another profession or wife or life to up-sell I'll go on vacation for the next half-century and these guys can work my job in the cubicle an elite-level dropout wrecked the sports car on the way to the dish pit take the company jet to Anguilla with a discount number sweeping up do a spot-mop at the branch plant ignored by most, reviled by a few as many similarly healthy twenty-five year olds do
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The Dishwasher’s Chant We need forks! We need spoons! Get them on out! They’re all ready done! We need glasses! We need knives! Get them on out! They’re all ready done! These pans are hot! These pans are hot! Put them in the sink! Put them in the sink! The trash is full! The floor is dirty! Take it out back! I’ll get the mop! We need plates! We need cups! Wash them yourself! I’m all done!
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Things to Do Before I’m Thirty One day it will happen I'll be the author of my own demise I'll take advantage of the company drug plan Contract bronchitis And then sue them for workers' comp Get off the crack Start doing hard stuff Strike up the band Start going to bed at ten Attain enlightenment Become a bilingual sales rep Inherit one hundred grand In Brazilian Reals And then fake my own death in a phone booth Go down to the States Get deported Rob Peter to pay Paul Desecrate a national capital Do my part to fight noise pollution Become an active member of my alumni association Set my clock fifteen minutes back Exacerbate the problem Explore my feminine side Try influence peddling Have an affair with a country singer And cry about it after Stop, drop and roll Live on practically nothing Prove Descartes wrong Lose all sense of accountability Replace it with a sense of taste Become a fly on the wall At a counterfeiters' symposium Knock on wood Rap on plastic Forget to floss Slip a disc Work up a good lather Confess to everything and then take it all back Save all my roaches Wipe the prints from the gun Bungee jump using a roll of red tape Pole vault the Vatican Stock up on cohorts
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Become a captain of industry Dabble in real estate Hire a driver Incorporate Estonia Then invade LithuaniaIt's showing up that's important Rub shoulders with royalty Rub shins with an heiress Exchange blows with her dad To speed up the process Change my underwear six times in one day Go down Niagara Falls in a barrel Relocate to St. John from the peanut gallery Send my ear to the collection agency In lieu of further payments Impale myself with a steak knife In imitation of the Samurai Quit begging for sex Stage a coup d'etat Get jacked up on gack Rewrite my memoirs Go into rehab Take my place of work hostage Get married to a dysfunctional wife Keep my maiden name Have a dog or a child Stop at the duty-free store Collect mucho bric-a-brac Become vegetarian Rat out a narc in another department Attend a Paul Westerberg concert Buy an SUV if the market allows Jump from the tallest building on Bay St If things don't work out Storm the beaches of Normandy Start following sports- both amateur and professional Take out some insurance Retreat to my dungeon in Montreal Weep into my teacups while nobody listens Measure afternoons with coffee spoons Get middle-aged Watch reruns of "the Beachcombers" Languish in obscurity Face the music- preferably Beethoven Buy a bear skin rug and a girl scout uniform for the wife Take the brat to t-ball games
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Yield to pedestrians Have a heart attack at Wal-Mart Go on safari Exit stage right Lance my own tumours Stop checking the mail Join the Raeliens Win the Atlantic Super Seven Uphold my allegiance to the Queen Learn CPR Turn down the Nobel Prize And then crash the reception Attend midnight mass One fatal Christmas Die of natural causes after getting hit by a bus
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The Republic of Naught There's a heaven for turncoats Those about to dissemble Confirmed unbelievers Evangelical atheistsProgressive recidivistsRobert W. ServiceJohn Wesley Harding Captain America The Ayatolla The Lesbian Mafia Slaughterhouse workers Legions of deadbeats Lighthouse keepers Overwired plebs Acadian driftwood Travelling snake-oil salesmen An army of smart alecks Homesick Jones Prisoners of Diego Garcia Schlubs of all stripes Guano islanders Repomen and repowomen Stars to be shot A man called "Intrepid" Fictional presidents, both past and present The Secretary of DefectsArchconservativesJean Chretien's last stand The wreck of the old '67 Bastards of youngSilent film starsVarious persons named Kevin O'Brien The simplest chimp in the jungle Fidelity investigators Amateur brain surgeons The nineteen-year-old girl crying on your shoulder Autodidacts Honourary finks Disgraced valedictorians Amateur warmongers Stooges for hire Dial-a-pariah Certified bumpkins Chronic gossip-mongers
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Roughnecks in training Pinch-hitters and spoilsports The kangaroo court of last resort The losers' circle The victims' consortium The Twilight of the Sons of BitchesSpring-heeled Jack The working-est of classes The most drunken of masters The bonfire of the vanity of Duluoz A confederacy of wingnuts Would-be confidence artists TurbojugundThe axis of evil celebritiesHalf and halve-not provinces Former Maritimers repatriated at gunpoint The hordes of bedlam The Dictator's daughter Students of cryptozoology Twenty-first century midwives Charles Foster Kane Your missing keys and schemes Hacks of all trades World renowned line cooks Professional busybodies A flock of wide cunts Several spare embryos An endangered species of creeps Reeking Lizaveta The fucked up white trash in the cubicle next to you Harbingers of bathos Steve Purgatorio Barsluts-in-waiting Armchair goalies Kafka on the Klondike A rotating cast of crooks The bad Samaritan Your odious in-laws The scourge of T.O The prodigal motherfucker The Ghost of Tom Joad Victims of image transversing the multi-verse Part-time sycophants Revenge of the Zits The passions of 'borgs and 'droids Rhoda, riding the bus to work in the winter
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And her children who don't call anymore Hank Chinasky Your older alter ego and the booze he rode in on Trannies and hermaphrodites The Cape Breton Liberation Army's Women's Auxiliary Drudge workers and wage slaves all numb to the bone Forty-year old grocery clerks who still live with their mothers The erstwhile ballerina The way of Jerzy Kosinski Your pickup that got away Tyler DurdenThe Blame Canada Commission You, or the face you wake up to Chairman of the board of dogs ...in fact you've been there yourself before you got caught.
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