To thine own self be true

(associative shape and light of MacDonald Hotel patio lamp and moon)

Association in relation to memory, thinking, and connection. Reflected in what we do, experience, communicate, think about, and express. How that works as organic human process as a mode for experiencing life, others, information, entertainments, etc. How the mind or consciousness works associatively and connectively, naturally. Something in all of this, too, about design and the mind’s search from an early age for pattern, structure, connection, and sense-making design.

The recent coyote-killing-for-cash contest.
The government’s renewal of wolf extinction plans. Shooting them from helicopters. Poisoning dead grizzlies shot to lure wolves. Three times this has been done in the name of saving woodland caribou who are dwindling as their eco-habitats get wiped out by man, each time with no appreciable difference. About as dumb as ‘controlled burns’ that often get out of control and set fire to provinces. Dumb, dumb, dumb. ‘Experts’. Governments. A moratorium should be declared on all this so-called environment work. A massive example all this of man’s fundamental irrationality and hostility with regard to Nature. Tar sands tailing ponds no one needs now vs. ducks. Truly sickening.

FYI/For those of you who assume aboriginal music is just a circle of old guys chanting and beating drums or a few legendary greats such as Buffy Sainte-Marie, check out 89.3 FM (Aboriginal Voices Radio) in Edmonton Monday mornings before and after 7 a.m. You’ll hear many widely unknown new talents–singers, composers, and instrumentalists, along with some Aboriginal world music. I was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the new and interesting native sounds being broadcast today. Many songs are in various native languages, but there are also many English lyrics. A most pleasant positive revelation.

(my son, 4)

Quiet footsteps
& people leaving rooms
talk in whispers–
curtains drawn slowly
across his falling lids
as colours fade to

black in Lawnmower Land
a place where he can
drive a large truck
inspecting garbage bins
unhindered by grown-ups
in a heaven of motors
vents & sewers–
all with my son
in charge

Weedeaters trim
his long eyelashes
as i sit far off
reading in another room
unable to stop
the demons of wheel-dreams
from rolling over
my little boy’s brain

“History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.”–Stephen Daedalus

And if you go far enough
& live long enough
you shall come at last
to where the remaining bodies
are excavated below
empty malls & coliseums.

There you will find a truth
wind-blown & decomposed
unlike any small sorrow
you have personally known.

The great human record.
The archives of deconstruction.
The Auschwitz of Nicolai Ceausecu.
The bloody shoe-closet of Imelda Marcos.
Chernobyl & the killing fields
of Bosnia, Hiroshima & Waterloo.
The long inhuman legacy
of ego, fear, greed
& testosterone.

On a good day, madre
the sun may shine on your garden
& you shall hear birdsong
& feel the rhythms of imagined desire:
blue/green, or so it goes.

So enjoy your latte moment.
You’ve earned it, kid.
Put jam on the unthinking
scones of ignorance.
Pretend & above all pray
to something larger & better
than this or your self.

Pray that some walls will
remain standing after all
you’ve ever said or half-done.
Ponder for once now
the pillars & forgotten dreams
of the multitudinous dead.

………………………….

Recalling the political upheavals of 1990; written then

Down the long steps
to an unscheduled wood,
down to the feathered green
of mast-like trees
swaying high and significant.

An inland sea sweeps
deck and continent alike,
black and white peaks
a geography of snow:
one man, one solitude.

He was meant for this ground–
his presence a direction
his message a track.
He was destined for this
much meaning.

the boardwalk over pungent moss
the unseen elk and wolf
no tourists
and a safe passage home.

………………….

Banff, 1995ish, staying at friends’ place during a film conference

She was big, huge in fact.
When she moved it was
one paw in front of the other
like a stunned grizzly.

She wore a red plaid jacket
which her slow boyfriend
liked to play checkers on
at the casino.

Biologists sat in a nearby truck
keeping tabs on her feeding habits
with a transmitter on her collar.
Most likely she was after

pop & chips again
but weaving thru the parked cars
she’d be lucky to make it
across the lot.

if I cd
mikrowav
yr mournin

only nuke
yr vishun
wants & 4 all

what a
wunnerful whirld
ths wd b

……………………..

Bissett–king of the lower case/pretextspeak poets; overrated

Everything falls apart
when it’s someone else’s story.
Your guides are misfits.
They are the dead.
Those who pretend to lead
are pompous & paralyzed.
Their words form tight circles
& a poison that saps your life-blood.
A collage of cliché & borrowed expression.

These people. These damned people.
Smug delusions of self-appointed authority.
The cachet of projected death.
All must suffer & be silent.
All must bend & bow.
They take away your experience
& tell you how to feel.

It is wrong to possess.
There is foul dust here.
The river has moved downstream.
A beautiful lucidity.
Everything falls apart
when it’s someone else’s story.

red-blue lights
blink on
and off

the mangled motorbike
sputters in defeat
its twisted metal
a cruel sacrifice
to an invincible semi

some young male
caucasian, no previous record
writhes in the dirt
and jagged glass
his black jacket
ridiculous with blood

onlookers and joggers
gape
await their turns
to babble to
tired police
who record the moment
for computer posterity

other vultures
cruise by slowly
eager for glimpse
of death &
gore

in my mirror
I see an urgent ambulance
approach the milling crowd
and wonder if
I’m late
for supper

…………………………

I have used this social commentary poem to teach the concept of persona as opposed to poet. The poem was first published in the original 1984 edition of Inside Poetry by Richard Davies and Glen Kirkland.