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Three Poems
by Zachary Whalen

i found my new typewriter in a dead lady's closet

what a stupid machine.
there's an integral flaw-

no exclamation mark.

and i swear
i looked all over for it.

i found this typewriter
while i was ransacking
a dead lady's closet.
i was going through the pockets
of her dresses and coats,
trying to maybe find
some valuable jewels.

all the pockets
were stuffed with kleenex.

how's that for an obituary?

i suppose we all get old,
and then who has any use
for exclamation marks?
who has any use
even for question marks?
periods probably still come in handy, though.

i feel like i am
stuffed with kleenex.

how futile it is
to try and blow my nose
exclamation mark exclamation mark exclamation mark


i suppose i have
a veritable cornucopia
of distractions
to occupy me.

it's like a circus-
who doesn't like a circus?
though i could always use
a few more unicycle tricks,
nude tight-rope walkers...

last week,
i took the memories
of every pussy
and hung them above
the door frame.
now it's easier to examine
the mechanical components.

one day,
i will crawl inside your pussy and read
a newspaper.

for the time being,
i'm stacking beercans,
one on top of
the other.
it's a phallic endeavour
of mine,
a shaky erection
leaning against
the sun.


the eternally
public receptacle.

gutters steaming:
is that the smell
of shit? blood?
day-old coffee.

it's incredible-
the will to piss
and defecate wherever
you will,
and then pray to those
who sleep in

there are a million
lonely women
who prepare dinner
for nine million cats
while the nameless dogs
know nothing of numbers
and wait obediently-
for what?

are you just
lifting an obligatory face
to your sun?

the traffic is squeezed
into corridors of inertia.
the citizens curse
every daily occurence-

they curse a life
dragging itself
down dead-end streets
and the hand that is waving
from my stoop.

About the author:
My name is Zachary Whalen. I live in Canada and I drink four litres of milk a day because it builds strong bones.

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