lecture three:

“Love is its own justification.” What about the kind theoretically steeped in sin? Must or may you overcome it? It is, after all, the word that makes her fall in love. The Word? And how does she fall? Is this original sin, repeated again and again as she falls? If so, it seems categorically unfair to punish her suffering, since the Word has made her fall (or possibly just may’d her fall; permissive or conditional? Does it matter? Should it?). Does one ever do more than bandy with words? Does one ever do more than bandy with words?

lecture two:

Truth is subjective. It is the subject, fiction, and the object is you. Don’t object, gentle reader, but settle back into the space of metafiction; learn to be comfortably uncomfortable with the notion that biography, and perhaps especially autobiography, is categorically untrue. Either that, or it’s at the very least one-true. “There’s an ethereal quality to this,” he says, and I rather suspect this might be delightfully, convincingly untrue. Fiction must be compelling, or it disappears. Now, how best [sic] to embrace the mystery?

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.