Waiting For Free Restrictions

July 4, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles

shuttered justice
escape
shattered bride wet ice
capade
nil
this shadow brush
leaves the arena slowly spinning

axis melted
captain's fronds

country genius
many trucks foals and fleedom cash
(not philly)

this agent ain't gonna do ya
ain't gonna feel ya
don't gonna
violin

it's financial violence

Not Toronto Blue Not Montreal White

my mollified groundlings
it is from deep inaccuracy that i write this letter
shave your sherwood
sieve lemon best
shiv selwyn zest

drain

this secondary
that goalcrease
this heavy nickelodeon mound

attracted purchase
cliffed collide

cleft palace
(ice)

none of these pieces fit

Why Don’t You Just Say What You Mean

gionta is done, ain’t he, best days done
gomez, he’s overpaid, he’s a bum
smaller and smaller, you guys are doomed

cammalleri, he’s too small, too
good to see kovalev go, he was too inconsistent
good to see the overrated koivu go, he wasn’t an elite centre

finally gainey did something

finally why don’t you shut up

Two American Artistes

flags of gray ash
room in the wind

grey coupe down St. Catherines

john nods, pips (fooled american)

this western audio studio is miles from a cadillac cup ride with your ex-captain, your French phenom, your vanilla expertise, your doom grooms my season ticket drown

celine has no place in this nouveau cathedral
riche
ain’t it

Eleven Clever Banner

all guitars stop
the bass drum thumps
alone

you on the plane
at the lectern
the colours are all wrong

you on the ice
in the slot
the sounds hurt so much

you after the game
before the return
you’re still ours

like a monster collects hockey figurines

Yes, I Do Read The Paper, Too

george walks free (not the grill dude)
robert arrives in New York smiling, shaking (the horror camp guy)
the local scarves have the power
the local hoods have the hang

and in a small meaningless arena
a phantom teardrop

I’m Five Minutes From The Wrong Arena

stilted
smug
undeserving

words skitter away
like Xray’s bauble

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