Poetry: Selections from David Boski

The Antichrist

Walking by the psychiatric halfway house

at the corner of Spencer and Springhurst.

One of the men standing in front looks at me

and says, “Are you in a band?”

I reply, “Not anymore,”  

even though I never was.

“You probably made a lot of money

when you were,” he continues.

Melvin lifts his leg and relieves himself on the grass

when the man’s eyes shoot open

and he pensively asks, “Are you the Antichrist?” 

I smirk and say, “Maybe.”

We continue walking westbound,

looking back once to see the man still staring—

stunned, confused. 

Soul-Searching

yesterday I loved you

today I hate you

I stuck my tongue inside of you

and tried to find your soul

I tasted pussy and urine 

but couldn’t find any soul 

I also lost mine

so I went looking for it

when I saw it on a streetcar

heading eastbound past Dufferin

I started running after it 

but had to stop to catch my breath a few times

and every time I did the streetcar kept getting

farther and farther away 

and for some reason it wouldn’t stop

my soul was staring at me through the back window

I gave up and knelt down to pet a dog by

Stanley Park

and I forgot about the streetcar

and I forgot about my soul

then I remembered my own dog

Melvin 

was waiting for me at home—

surely he has enough soul left for the both of us 

Thanks for Asking

Toronto is starting to get to me.

I am getting sick of Parkdale.

Island Foods closed down,

& I miss my shrimp roti.

 

All the streets look the same.

All the bars are the same.

I should check out the east end

but the Ubers would be more expensive

 & I don’t like taking street cars.

 

I got into a bar fight a few weeks ago,

right by Dundas & Ossington. 

Apparently the guy was an off duty

police officer. He walked up to me &

asked if I was stressed. I said no,

but he asked again & said:

“Are you sure?

You look fucking stressed.”

 

I should’ve just said:

“Yes, I am, thanks

for asking.”

 

Maybe he would’ve laughed.

Maybe he would’ve thought that was funny.

 

But instead, I started punching him in the face.

He didn’t laugh, & I don’t think

he thought that was funny.

The Best Advice I’ve Ever Heard

When I was 15 years old

my sweet Serbian baba 

called me into her spare bedroom

where she was lying down

and asked me to get her a pen

and something to write on.

I found a pen and then I gave her a box of Kleenex

’cause I couldn’t find any paper.

She took the pen in her shaking hands

and in Serbian she wrote, “Jedi” and “Jebi” on the box,

which translates into “Eat” and “Fuck.”

She looked at me and said, “Samo to. Uvek jedi i uvek jebi,”

which translates into “Just that. Always eat and always fuck.” 

To this day, it’s the best advice I’ve ever heard. 

Karate is a Thing of the Spirit

I was walking home when I noticed

people watching a confrontation taking place 

at the corner of Gwynne & King.

A young Asian man

was holding up his phone recording

an old, drunk, homeless guy

shouting obscenities at him.

Suddenly, the young man karate kicked

a tallboy out of the hobo’s hand

& it flew onto King Street.

He got on his bike & readjusted his headphones.

He biked past me

& as I stared he said: “That guy’s bothering me, dawg.” 

The old drunk looked around frantically 

& screamed: “Where the fuck is my beer?!”

David Boski lives in the Parkdale neighborhood of Toronto. Many of his poems have appeared throughout the underground small press. His latest chapbook South of King Street was released by Subway Suicide Press.