Offcourse Literary Journal
ISSN 1556-4975 

Poems by Dion Farquhar.


Go Figure


Forty years socialism’s
still the twitching phantom limb
crying form’s a sham
add an e          
shame        deceive        deny
ignoring what it’s altered

what could be true
what is the case:
dysfunction: one and unequal

fourteen feet of woodsy grid
faculty mail slots
measure as plain
as the nose on our face

damned           redeemed         used

Herr Doktor Überwelt
or Madame Moi-Meilleur
in 48 point Gothic caps
& every adjunct               the majority
in 8 point lower
case Times Roman

but everyone meriting
the same
all upper
Arial 24

font equality


a start




You’re on the longest line
you’ve ever seen at your ghost bank,
one of the many October buy-outs
though it still keeps its own name
aggressive banners proclaiming
“We’re the same bank—only better.”
and “We’re becoming Chase.”

When you get to a teller,
one of two on duty, you ask,
How come you’re down to two tellers?
We had some staff changes,
whispers the twenty-year-old pony tail.
You mean there were lay-offs…?

Her eyes meet yours, hands still
moving, fiddling with slips.
For a few seconds,
we’re co-conspirators,
freedom fighters.
Have a good day.
You too.




                        the subject line
bigger manhood
wishing it opened eager
I am not now               nor have ever been
a member        myself
            though historically
            cock-crazed in certain contexts
                        generated by just
the right scripts                      sound tracks
                        but the way manhood
            waries me

spam stumping for more reason
mangled voice                        over eye
unlikely           so begin gingerly
                         never believing
it’s what’s up front that counts

image your own private filibuster
            in extremis    always worrying
charade a canonic bleed
flowing backwards from the period
            meaning happened
after veering so close
soldiering on

            both true and not true
every telling a slant
universalizing lie        like most

a two-incher on a leash                at best       
if you think about it    why bother
but leading?              never    
neutral            ave rage

gorging on      frequency        mood        duration
                        black humor’s meaty salvage
      the period cross      (or garlic)       to poem

softening lusty witches up
goofballs dizzying after words         
line hermits    main terminals
plug me in                   grounded        
can of worms 




si se puede





You walk outside to the garbage cans, realize that being mugged just isn’t on your radar. There’s no one around, and you can hear the crunch of your feet on the gravel. Yet you feel completely safe. You crane your neck and look up at the stars, savoring the sky. For this sense of well-being, you’ve traded another—the public space of cities. Uncertainty the other side of randomness. Where you come from, there was always a hint of danger lurking, the need for constant alert. A paranoia so visceral it could pass for hard-wired.




Dion Farquhar is a poet and prose fiction writer with recent poems in BlazeVOX, Hamilton Stone Review, Right Hand Pointing, Shifter, Fifteen Project, City Works, SLAB, Epiphany, etc. Her chapbook, "Cleaving", won first prize at Poets Corner Press in 2007, and her first poetry book, Feet First, was one of two finalists for the Sinclair Prize and will be published by Evening Street Press in early 2010.


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