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Invisible to Predators
From thoughtful meditations to riotous outrages, the second book of poems from the multi-talented R.M. Vaughan. Invisible to Predators, R.M. Vaughan’s second book of poems, is the follow-up to his critically acclaimed debut, A Selection of Dazzling Scarves. This more personal, intimate collection charts Vaughan’s two poetic obsessions ― quiet, formal confessional poems, and exuberant, mischievous performance pieces. With works dedicated to old boyfriends and one-night stands, French Revolution dictators and Hollywood character actors, an old pair of jeans and a bag of potato chips, Invisible to Predators is a vibrant new collection that dodges, disrupts, and disturbs.
- GenresPoetry
64 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 1999
4 people want to read
About the author
R.M. Vaughan
16 books5 followersRichard Murray Vaughan was a Canadian poet, novelist and playwright.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
January 24, 2022
things to watch for, mister, when the obituary feels like closure:
the arrival of black flies, uncountable spelling names of dead
boyfriend on bedroom walls or broken plates and
green candles burnt clean to the tin X on the bottom, rubbed out
by hoofprints everywhere, the fogged rank of shit
sure, they're Signs but so was my note goodbye
I've had too many nights to a novel, to myself I want fever, not
contemplation and you ignore that
also at your peril
* * *
1. Every man you have had sex with or eve attempted to have sex with will immediately glide forth from the shelters of smart, bi-coastal cuisine restaurants and overpriced pet food boutiques and know, know in a flash that you are getting fatter every day and those chips are not helping.
2. Because potato chips are a childhood food, you will feel compelled, like a nice boy, to share - and that's just a fast way to catch hepatitis.
3. If you have to drop by The 519 Community Centre, the tight-faced lesbian at the front counter will remind you, correctly, that queer youth of colour are being physically and verbally abused in Third World sport shoe factories owned by the parent company of Frito Lay.
How could you?
4. And what are you gonna do with the bag? It can't be recycled (see #3).
5. Remember how unattractive you felt at that gay actor's house part when you ate all the small, broken bits of Salt 'n Vinegar at the bottom of his Emile Henry bowl and then the skinny playwright who had an affair with the theatre critic from Now magazine said: Don't they feed you at home?
It could happen again, fat boy, right here in public.
6. You're supposed to be broke. So, who paid for the Humpty Dumptys?
7. All the successful gay men are eating washed green apples or Power Bars on open-faced grilled eggplant melts with asiago cheese and fresh figs from Spiral Grill.
You feel so alone.
8. It's bad luck. Like jaywalking with sunlight in your eyes or throwing away pennies or wearing a white shirt on Saturday night.
9. Drop one chip, just one, and you're increasing the typhus-carrying microbe population by about 2 billion. Thanks a lot.
10. One publicly consumed bag of chips is sexually counter-equal to: one flattering new haircut; 3 subtle yet penetrating colognes; any favourite, loose-fitting flannel shirt, plus a whole week's worth of consciously sucking in your stomach at 30-second intervals. Double the ratios for Ketchup flavour.
Math never lies.
11. If you can't wait until you get indoors: A) don't buy the Party Pak (278 grams!) or, failing A), B) hide your chips in an opaque grocery bag or backpack.
This advice should be obvious to us all.
12. I admit I wanted him. I admit I found him attractive. Oh, the hard kern of his jaw (sailor boy). The comforting W his pecs made, like two big smiles.
His cruel laugh I would kill to hear in my bed.
13. There is no way to construct such behaviour as legitimate radicalism.
14. Instead, you might take the 2 dollars blown on Ruffles and go across town by lay streetcar to a kinder neighbourhood, someplace more real, a family place. Someplace where you'd meet a forthright, masculine man - maybe an engineer, or a journalist - a man who can see and, yes, even lose the thousand tiny sparkles that make you you.
But now it's too late.
the arrival of black flies, uncountable spelling names of dead
boyfriend on bedroom walls or broken plates and
green candles burnt clean to the tin X on the bottom, rubbed out
by hoofprints everywhere, the fogged rank of shit
sure, they're Signs but so was my note goodbye
I've had too many nights to a novel, to myself I want fever, not
contemplation and you ignore that
also at your peril
- Manifest, pg. 15
* * *
1. Every man you have had sex with or eve attempted to have sex with will immediately glide forth from the shelters of smart, bi-coastal cuisine restaurants and overpriced pet food boutiques and know, know in a flash that you are getting fatter every day and those chips are not helping.
2. Because potato chips are a childhood food, you will feel compelled, like a nice boy, to share - and that's just a fast way to catch hepatitis.
3. If you have to drop by The 519 Community Centre, the tight-faced lesbian at the front counter will remind you, correctly, that queer youth of colour are being physically and verbally abused in Third World sport shoe factories owned by the parent company of Frito Lay.
How could you?
4. And what are you gonna do with the bag? It can't be recycled (see #3).
5. Remember how unattractive you felt at that gay actor's house part when you ate all the small, broken bits of Salt 'n Vinegar at the bottom of his Emile Henry bowl and then the skinny playwright who had an affair with the theatre critic from Now magazine said: Don't they feed you at home?
It could happen again, fat boy, right here in public.
6. You're supposed to be broke. So, who paid for the Humpty Dumptys?
7. All the successful gay men are eating washed green apples or Power Bars on open-faced grilled eggplant melts with asiago cheese and fresh figs from Spiral Grill.
You feel so alone.
8. It's bad luck. Like jaywalking with sunlight in your eyes or throwing away pennies or wearing a white shirt on Saturday night.
9. Drop one chip, just one, and you're increasing the typhus-carrying microbe population by about 2 billion. Thanks a lot.
10. One publicly consumed bag of chips is sexually counter-equal to: one flattering new haircut; 3 subtle yet penetrating colognes; any favourite, loose-fitting flannel shirt, plus a whole week's worth of consciously sucking in your stomach at 30-second intervals. Double the ratios for Ketchup flavour.
Math never lies.
11. If you can't wait until you get indoors: A) don't buy the Party Pak (278 grams!) or, failing A), B) hide your chips in an opaque grocery bag or backpack.
This advice should be obvious to us all.
12. I admit I wanted him. I admit I found him attractive. Oh, the hard kern of his jaw (sailor boy). The comforting W his pecs made, like two big smiles.
His cruel laugh I would kill to hear in my bed.
13. There is no way to construct such behaviour as legitimate radicalism.
14. Instead, you might take the 2 dollars blown on Ruffles and go across town by lay streetcar to a kinder neighbourhood, someplace more real, a family place. Someplace where you'd meet a forthright, masculine man - maybe an engineer, or a journalist - a man who can see and, yes, even lose the thousand tiny sparkles that make you you.
But now it's too late.
- 14 Reasons Not To Eat Potato Chips On Church Street, pg. 53-54
October 28, 2020
You will be missed.
July 17, 2022
one of those poets whos poetry I want to like more than I do.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews