Missing

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The first poster said MISSING TEETH, above a dark photograph of a few molars, an incisor and a canine.

They were leaned up against a white backsplash like suspects: one molar seemed especially sinister; the canine was stained as if multiply tattooed.

Then, MISSING HAIR. Picture of a bald pate, stack of hair with forks sticking out like oars. The same request to. “Call Little Sugar,” and number.

MISSING EYE was a disquieting sand-covered surface with a peeled egg in its centre and now it said “EMAIL SUGE,” with a Yahoo address.

MISSING HEAD: a bloody axe.

The police got involved. I heard Gord Martineau say “A repugnant series of photographs,” and “police are baffled.”

MISSING YOU freaked me out. A picture of me taken from very far away, saying “Help!” in a cartoon bubble.

I got protective custody after MISSING STABBING YOU. This was a pastel drawing, a very good one, of a little girl holding a dripping knife and me, lying in the ground, saying “Oh my Jesus ! This hurts!”

I was moved to Ajax and known as Len Criswell until the posters caught up.

MISSING YOUR FEAR it said and it was a scratch and sniff only my dog could understand.

I am living in the US now, with a good name I can’t say.

At night when Fredo is asleep
I pull out the old pad and mock up new designs.

In a few days MISSING ENTRAILS will appear. My first oil.

Fredo and I will get to move even farther away, and I thought I could open a little gallery.

Hey turn the light off, he yells. It’s three in a fuckin morning!

Sorry honey, I say.

Writing MISSING STINKY LITTLE BOYFRIEND W/PLANTAIN COCK

Alone in the dark, which I love.

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