Other Poems by:

Chris Baribeau

Cherries, Hubcaps, and Unprovoked

it's the same haircut 

as Julius Caesar. 

precious toss salad

holds attention like carpenter


iron worker 

Tied to harness  


Down with the same 



18 months in the can 


 never look dumber


Asked her for a hex


on the daughter 


of the Indian kid 


Back in my class

before they had co-ed


now it's easier

to trick little 

flag wavers


He'd have done the same 

to me

given the chance. 


The five time loser


But I still love

Working the cougar bars.


-They're always 




when it comes to 

boy toys 

getting shot 

by ex-husbands 


-best them than me


fuckin shanks. 


I wanna play her like a pinball machine

set her back 

up shank 

ready to throw up 

ringing yellow and 



Sky's the limit 

Nipple ding!

That bad looking, careless winner wife

Waiting patiently like a

child of obesity


floors will wish you dead 


upright upon 

the puzzled face of each 

mace owner

Rape case, self-defence 

back ally mom

Frantic defender

Standing in a puddle of 


called piss


Rolling her eyes at me

like I took the last pancake

nightwalker's competition

The immediate and worthless

Redundant pal 


Couldn't stand when you piss, 


Knees seem too weak.




9 for 9


the calls

flying in 

Asking about 


and the 



the Golf courses

Full to the mouth


Vinegar Grass 

soaked out


needs to chill 

on the balcony 

for 5


the sound 

of the

 last person


My knees turned to 9-woods-


Slept under the paper 

the night being warm- 

18 minutes 

at a time

Hairless Psychic

you can kneel 

you can breathe

 and still 

the fire which you piss-

Somehow warmer than most.


I could have stolen your 

Better laces 

hung sharper gum 

Soak bourbon in paralyzer

teeth brush in propane carbon, like 

your sisters dresser 

you keep robbing 

Five bras

to hustle off somewhere


ambiguous answers

Roadside, basket weaving 

Indian shit 


when the sprits came to me-

Lydia Lunch!

Stoned, line of sight, matching plate numbers

Could go for marshmallows. On a stick.

Empty canisters to collect 

Smoke and rancid Wellington 

twisted in the sand, 

five feet ahead 

the blades of grass

tip the blow

Heading for dunes 

with neon shacks

where nostalgia goes to die

What could make my spell bread and

progesterone woman 

Alive in the head one second 

tonight she'll be over the balcony 


As I was just heading out 

hearing the screams two doors down


which was none of my business,

except hijacking the incident

to explain here


without heading for that 

story telling shit

Years later, 


In some backwater 

Curb side chair  

Exchange fuckin war stories at 79 

Rock away with egg rolls and warm Pepsi 

The sound of the dock, 

Razor stubble

Goddamn harmonicas


missed too much 

once it's gone 


The smell, crusting your 


from a Saturday razor 

flakes between


Desperate smalltalk

with rapist undertones 

15 weeks long


You'll scratch your ears- 

Try reaching the skull 

to remember it 


Hoard disgusting used napkins 

after every meal 


curb-side hippies 

to patronize 


 "Last call! Lawn flamingo sale!"


Chris Baribeau's stuff can be found in a few webzines, like the Cerebral Catalyst, Haggard and Halloo, and Zygote in my coffee. 

He lives in Halifax, Nova Scotia. 

C)opyright 2006 Chris Baribeau

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