Les Rêves Canadiens

                              Eyes

I
 Mother told me more than once that there are people, crazed Gypsies
 mostly, people who can make you sick just by looking at you. I became
 involved with an amber-eyed woman who was heavily into this kind of
 thing, and she told me one night between couplings that all those people
 really do is make the sickness within you more apparent. When our affair
 began to sour, she arranged to have me cursed with bad luck in my career.
 Later, during a short reconciliation, she got four flat tires driving me
 to a job interview.

II
 I feel queasy in the gaze of certain animals, like the ones at the zoo
 who manage to look smug and evil in their confinement. Go ahead, they
 stare, put your hand through the bars. Hold out your hand and see.

III
 Seeing you seated alone and almost gleaming in a darker corner of the
 Blue Moon Lounge at the Outsider Inn, I knew the things I wanted to tell
 you would only make you think I was crazy, but that's not always bad, and
 it seemed as good a reason as any to try. You managed a curious grin as I
 approached, but you remained silent, your smile retreating as I
 introduced myself and babbled along about the finer points of a fantasy
 itinerary. When I got to the part about loincloths on a virgin stretch of
 tropical beach, your eyes narrowed and began to reflect the available
 light as a laser, burning a new hole in my nose. I bowed, returned to my
 barstool and ordered a double urine, neat.

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