lecture one:

Fuck a saint.
Any one will do; the martyrs are best.
It’s not polite to refuse
if a Canadian saint
lays before you and begs
with her innocence.
Well, maybe she was standing,
and he saw her,
but still
she was begging.

A point of departure from a lecture
in class
that floats from conscience
to consciousness.
This poem, self-reflexive
and awkward as it rests
is a Canadian saint.
Why not?
“Then indirection is seen as guidance.”

What if? Does it matter?
Should it matter?
Who cares?
Who’s asking? And telling?
Who’s Seussian scared?
What the fuck. Fuck a saint.
Oh, oh, oh,
O!
Canada.