to be undone; an eastern ontario state of mind

dying slowly; I am killing myself midwestern

blonde bombshell in the fore

autumn thoughts react to spring elements & dynasties

in the original, a chinese character does not exist

in newspapers expected but not given

in the heart of an empty field











small, for this is the way we expand all inherited traditions

I am neither heroic nor fashionable

inhaling from a hard white tube

the wind is not a detail











radio where I learn my everything

the red mailbox outside the dead pub no longer in use

this is the key to describing all arbitrary affect

the boredom is fascinating; overdone

I will not register my imagination









after sunset


the impossible moon rises to replace the impossible sun

if these words were always yours or mine

the ice cube releases heat as it melts in the glass

I am a false map of desire

how can it be that the shadows are gathered











the block that holds the park, thin hints to instigate construction

I am at the end of subject matter

between the river & the glass reflects

Id like to address the demands of writing

Id like to address lung capacity

like a phoenix her poetics greet












the repetition is a constant vigil

hold your hands to take the jellybeans from the vending machine

two wrongs dont make alight

it dont matter what you did

justice spins like car wheels overturned

I needed

I told them what I loved & why









it is all too far to bring the world out as it is

when am I going to make the fray

three dogs decide

the unruliest of birds

the writers festival forgets

her children I have never met

a tactile displacement

writing leads writing to only









an eventual screenplay


today the doctor wants to know the score

it was in the dream

a call from orlando while youre still young

I keep dreaming of living alone

if I knew my words once filled & fashioned

I call her miss atom bomb; I call her blonde bombshell

a humble icon of further imagination

I think singing must be in beautiful cellars



rob mclennan
lives in Ottawa, Canada's glorious capital city, even though he was born there. The author of over a dozen poetry collections including aubade (Canada: Broken Jaw Press, 2006), The Ottawa City Project (Canada: Chaudiere Books, 2007), a compact of words (Ireland: Salmon Publishing, 2007) and avalanche (United States: Outside Voices, 2007), he has edited a number of anthologies and other collections, and currently edits the online Ottawa poetry pdf annual ottawater (, the online critical journal (with Stephen Brockwell,, and posts regularly on his clever blog: A collection of his literary essays is due in fall 2007 with Canadian publisher ECW Press.

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