Veritas vincit  
Penniless Press... the inexhaustible voice

j. fisher

j.fisher lives and works in the downtown core of vitoria, bc. his first collection was published by
Frontenac House in 2004. his next collection will come out in the fall.

wild with mourning and love and sadness

lick the fingertips
just to get a sense
of how much of no good
i got up to.
pints flowed out in all directions
soon, memory suffered a quick collapse
(evasion the one sure remedy for
the pangs of guilt)
breakfast is a gagging drag as
spotty images pop up
pushing the paranoic;
i was kept busy imitating the ass
ruining a good time by
running a feckless hand
over the watershed of breasts
i did not intend to illuminate.
fumbled the attempt at explanation
she cut me off quick.
that same hand now explores my exhaustion
as i tug at the sheets and wonder
when they’re gonna work up the nerve
to kick me out of that pub
and, for good.

even the bulletin reeks of vanity

fighting to rise above
i flirt with
the under-fed, the street-worker
the junkie, the gnarled queen
still i sit
mired in obscurity
taking it all too seriously
while my leg hairs soak
thru the last good sheet of paper in this book
mussing up the flow
re-introducing the banal
’cause only assholes write in the tub
pondering social warfare
and religion
watching the walls
for early signs
of tobacco stain
and eminant collapse as
yellowing cracks bring
necessary relief to phoney integrity
and a lavender tongue.

a false drunken God asleep at the wheel

fighting with the title
looking for laughs
trying to hit the thing on the head
only succeeding at failure
smashing fingers
developing rashes and
generally pitching fits
for no mean monicker can sum up
this caustic habit
recording the movements of
those dancers, out there
doing a slow murder ballet
cork-screwing their lives into the ground.
is it a surprise that
my sense of humour
dissappears up my navel
while i climb up on the cross?
not even a chuckle left over, so
heart chalk-full of malice
i’m gone hunting, in the kitchen
in the cabinets
stealing lines, looking for the change
the knowing-grin
in someone else’s suffering.
sure, i’ll burn for this pinch
as with all things lifted
but, i know of no one
who can constantly afford
the cost of creation, or stand
anything but the smell
of their own shit stuffed
into envelopes
like some precious secret.
that’s all bullocks, vanity
and i could never subscribe
not for long
so i’ll deuce it with drink
click on the set
burn the walls, or
throw the phone out of the fucking window.
maybe then
i’ll hit on
something funny.


















©2006 Penniless Press