Ottawa Is For Lovers.
[Ottawa is for the wyrder ones;]
for parrot-man, for seven-loaves-of-bread-man, fifty-dinner-roll-lady, for man-with-a-head-too-small-for-his-body-(who-runs-onwards,-irregardless), for prayerful-asiatic-man-with-japa-mala, for cycling-muschachéd-hipster-man, for operatically-trained-vocalist-woman, for unkempt-old-cyclist-man-who-keeps-coming-back-to-the-financial-square,
and for the theosophy-tome-buyers,
for the clumsy-and-blunderful,
for the explorers,
for the fans-of-underground-cinema-horrors,
for the pack-rats and the hack-acts,
for the obsessive-pencil-sharpeners and the forgetful-gardeners,
for gourmets and 2-AM-shawarma-bingers,
for the visionaries,
for the sight-seekers,
for the confused-looking-foreign-dignitaries,
for the midnight-streakers,
for the public-lovers and those undercover,
for the 883,391+ bodies moving & sweating & shitting & waiting in construction-caused-traffic.
Hating the words on her brother’s shoulder, greeting the experience of becoming sober, older, roving over— the round and mossy hills, passing out at sunset and sharing pills,
I felt us losing and leaving and taking losses, as the sun sank over the mosses and st. nick burnt all his crosses, selling bibles to the salesmen who stood outside their door,
Being fucked in the ass by brilliant science majors (in their fourth year, being rasped out by voices of the headmaster’s school), hash tags and cached bags in the unspoilt mounds and curly bassinets of the outside canadian wilderness.