she romanticized the delivery as a form of work-escapism

as dumb as sticks
from this side of town

peering up through thick
lenses with
a peevish, bookworm
of curiosity about her

i got the sense
she wished she were more
like one of those adventurous
that sailors kiss in photographs
or soldiers
on the sides of death machines

didn’t know the address
tried to oversell
the product
“how’s your night goin’?”
it’s alright…
it’s about to get

Z Z A !
-the box flies open
and cherubic Icari tumble out
flinging love darts
as we swoon
over melted cheese
and average
if not unflattering deli meats

her combination eye-contact
and atmospheric tone assured
a generous tip
I hear Italy has the best gelato,
i tell her while passing the
post coital cigarette,
“I’ve looked into it darling,
they don’t have a Papa John’s
in Italy for me to transfer to”

who cares?
none of this fucking happened!
the customer service was shit
their telephone connection
was out to lunch
45 minutes to an hour
for a Large
that was delivered in 30 -or less
completely threw me off
at one point
i wondered
if Papa John subscribes to the
immutable laws of Time

I can say
that with the night i was having prior
“it’s about to get better,”
was not
an unwelcome proposition

the crust wasn’t oily
the topping portions were ample
they do the
complementary garlic butter

which was nice

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


which Elves do you work for?

i was Merry Christmas’d today
as a question
to what i could only assume to be
religious persuasion

“merry Christmas?”
to which i replied a sighed-out
merry christmas
in return

-the old woman
bless her heart
turned in her tracks to her knobby husband
who seemed
too concerned
with his unsteady feet
on the street ice
to be bothered with much else
“i don’t think he meant that”

i should hide my pentacle
when J-Star comes to town

to hell with that noise
maybe it was less a matter of spreading
holiday cheer
and more an act of the infirm
quizzical sound
from an aged person
bending awkwardly to look
up at an approaching stranger
bad eyes
coupled with bad posture
and unexpectedly strained
old bones

the husband grunted a return
something in the way of
that summarized our individual

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

what little we need

dreamt this night
horrible faces i knew once
criminal faces
threatening to cut my dick off
in a turkish bath
the smaller
of the three of them, i
knocked to the floor
without great difficulty
but the bigger one
would be trouble. i’d only made him
“Unless you have a gun…” i started

“well, he said
revealing a blade he had hidden
in his coat
“i do have this cut-you knife.”

fuck me jesus, i thought
looking over these three
unstoppable forces
they really mean to do it

up in bed like a
to the bathroom mirror
had to look myself in the eyes
had to see i’m still sane

a dream psychologist
might say
that i am unconsciously afraid
of losing all that i have

as a man
my penis is my connection to
the world that i know and
the root
to my identity

the fear that i am dying
that all that i am will –
phone is ringing in the other room
from my face. i’d been splashing cold
to chase away the crazy
carpet is wet

holy shit, you’re awake

(?) Yeah, just
what’s up?

Oh, nothing. i’ve been having
a weird night

i want to scream at the serendipity
but i keep quiet
my brother
has been up and down whiskey bottles
and in and out of manias
ever since his wife left

i love him and his phone calls
he has recently become
more interesting
without the wife
he has adventures and mishaps
but he’s not altogether well
and tonight
i get the feeling he is in
a bad way

i do my best to calm his storm
to bring his dragons to ground
and as
i’m stomping out the last fire
the last cigarette
and he
is deep in his cups

i choose this moment to remind him
that we all endure
the pain
of being human

in our own ways we
each of us scrape
all that we’re able
though it may be sand
our defeats
our challenges

are diamonds
unrecognizable to any but those
that keep them

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

the inhuman plane

I walk in geometric shoes
the precision
of (my) ambulatory gait
a stick-figure diagram
heel to toe, to
knee/ hip
in a digital framescape world

my HuMan mind
fleshes out the squariness
with texture
and curvature

consciousness populates the design
through the aperture
of perception

look now on our Eden
look now
on our actual real-ity

grass shoots through the porous earth
seed sprout varied by genus
trundling in the prairie wind
I knew

a Lion
would be a Lion even
I memorized his outline
his flesh
was described for me in books

as majestic as Mt. Fuji
Kilimanjaro or Taipei
blood intestine kidney lung

creates an idea
which animates

ridiculous bi-pedal

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


in Cherishing the Mask may we Make Beauty of Duplicity

we wear capes and masks
all of us
-sexual deviants
in our own ways
and heroes in our private fictions

where behaviour suppresses desire
the psyche divides
to allow that fantasy to play out
wether or not
we ever meet it
or aid in its creation or conclusion

we feed
through varied mediums
a fantasy self to escape into

surviving with a dark counterpart
has its paradoxes
none more so frightening
than when reality

becomes suspect

this truth is not altogether new
but more common now
than it has been
in generations past

anonymity is the catalyst
for the most disturbing concoctions
between mind
and mania

and privately
we all half expect
of living duplicitous lives

not unlike our fantasies
seeking like-minded companions
to play out the roles
we so desperately

to validate our elaborate perversions

in love
with these machinations
i create

deny yourself
openly disagree
while observed by persons
you knowingly hide from
i know


ever pressing at the surface
trying to peek out
from beneath the

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


Dennis, dead now five years
whatever fate devised took him
January 13th, 2011
an auspicious day
for a crooked

i’ll never forget
Jelinski, Lee-Anne issued me
two cheques
that month a colossal

two cheques issued by my
case worker, official
Jelinski fucked up

and i cashed them both
laughed, what fortune!
gave it to my woman
gave it to her hard, and we
had more money that month
than ever my God smiled upon me
Dennis must have flipped his lid
too many fuck-ups in that dept.
too many, and Jelinski fucked up
Big dumb blonde flashing cleavage
for stares across the desk
from poor boys
fat fucking slut Jelinski
always playing games
she needed me to beg her
and i never begged her

i was called in
to meet her in her office
that afternoon in 2010
late summer i think it was
i remember the sun
pouring in through the shades
venetian slits of light
fell horizontal
on those tits of hers
elbows on the desk
squeezing flesh between her arms
heat on my neck
late summer i think it was

and Dennis stormed in
i had never met the man before
that day
i had only heard his name
he was animated
he gestured with his hands
as he spoke
“Bank fraud, he said
Bank Fraud!”
and i stared at him
to spare the booby-trap
i stared at Dennis and said
“how can there be fraud
when an official cheque was cashed?”
there was no fraud”
he stormed out
slamming doors

Jelinski was in it now
and she put it on me
i had to pay the money back
an overdraft was added to my account

Dennis was crooked,
either that or a liar
a Social Worker
good with numbers, good with his accounts
an educated man
a good and decent man
say those who knew him
an idiot
outsmarted by a highschool drop-out
an idiot, or a crooked idiot

i saw him
on Main Street
in broad daylight
before winter came
he was walking with two men
in dark suits
on Main Street in the middle of the day
i hated him then
that crooked man
i burned with curses and cancers
burned and bubbled with hate for a liar
a liar
out walking
in the middle of the day
and he sensed me
he looked
over his shoulder he saw me
looked again,
saw again
in his hurried shoes
looked one last time
then turned a corner
and disappeared

was the last i ever saw of him

last i ever saw of that crooked liar
i paid his debt

but not before

paid mine.

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.

Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?

my sanctuary roof
with the drums of
smaller feet
not cherubic,
neither a metaphor
in Paradise
my upstairs neighbour
made decisions

might not be all bad
were it not for Mr. Fuckstick
i’ve knocked on his door
and looked into his eyes
his dull
un-apprehensive eyes and i
do not envy him
his devices

puttin’ it to a young
that can’t be twenty yet
she is
and just young-looking
for her age

i remember being twenty-something
dating a lithe double zero
full of want
and directionless aplomb

now at thirty
i’m already too old
for social butterfly adventures

they must have given him
building blocks or Lego’s
for the noise he makes
little King
smashing castles
across the kitchen linoleum

i remember Fuckstick when he first
moved in
such a depressing sight

he sat
without furniture
in his empty living space
without curtains or a telephone

for weeks
wrapped in melancholy
and what looked like
a Strawberry Shortcake comforter

he’s replaced his old teal rust-rocket
with a four door maroon Pontiac
moved the lil’ Missus in
and i could give two shits

i do like to sit with a glass
of wine and my Glenn Miller vinyl
at suppertime
without the ruckus

stomping at me to turn it down
i would, if he’d ask
but i doubt very much
that he put his Poke and her Baggage
on the lease

so, to Hell with that mouthy bitch
i think i’ll turn it up

this helps. this feels like

… ahh

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.