Letters to the Editor

Should be dead on arrival.
Should not reach the light of day.
Should not be thought up
In the minds of the people
Who intend to write them.

We can put a stop that. We can filter
Subjects: Letter to the Editor – out!
Shredding is insufficient, any received
Or scattered by mail plane should be
Laid at the doorstep to step on or on
Toilet paper to roll the dead into place.

They shouldn’t be sent at all. I’m sick
Of them. These people can pass it off
To that Other Journal, or Sun Review
Or Quarterly hitlist. Letters to the editor
Containing threats – just put it this way,

You write me a letter to the editor like that
And you’re dead to me. Any should be post-
Hoc. No presents. My inbox should be empty.
The people who write them should be shot.


Waiting for the night to be over,
I hear a train of thought – now it’s
Gone. I have no attention span.
A crowd of late teens gathering
To blast something up the street.
The radiate lengths of the train-tracks
Spread direct, so distant. I’m not coherent,
Your heiness. I order them gathered –
Thought possibles… Anyway, you were
Saying how you were sitting in a car
In Sicamous, BC unable to sleep,
Turning awkwardly in your Black Accent
SE’s hardly reclined drivers’ seat.
Sir, we’re trying to party, do you need help?
Hint: when you hear crashing, be in control.

Quebec City

I swear I can feel
The pain of the French

In the stone.
The icy quiet,

The introversion.
Beyond the Château

Frontenac, blank
Wind over

The boardwalk,
Point of the French

Being to break
Away, old corner-

Stone walkways.
I was alone, too.

I had a bare
Grasp of the language.

I looked at myself
In a shop window.

Est que tu?

For the French
Are like icicles

Too – quiet.

People in Queen Elizabeth

Taking pictures of themselves
As tourists in the park.

Others having their heads

By iPhones snapping shut.
Or coming news.

Local woman in a white kimono;
Professional photo. Obi wan

– Hot photographer, winks
A look between two –

Princess posting herself
On the internet.

A family hanging sheets
Between the trees – I have

Absolutely no idea what for.

Jasper Glen is from Vancouver, BC. He holds a BA in Philosophy and a JD. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Posit, AGOTT, BlazeVOX, Amsterdam Quarterly, Poetry Pause, WordCity Literary Journal, and elsewhere.