Unasleep on the bed
your head thick with night
& the smell of darkness
Spider-webs fall
down & dust your face
The feel of darkness
brushes close
like a bat’s wing
flapping at your window
Locomotive cry & sirens
stab the air with fear
Hall light frames
the chamber door
& casts its Poe-esque gloom
across the victim rug
Unasleep on the bed
your head thick with night
you listen for
the sounds of darkness
It never happened.
We both dreamt it.
You are dead to me
and all your touches
have turned to ash.
There is no more
flesh on these bones
picked clean by
the love-birds of prey.
Only strangers now
that glance away
or grow white
at certain footfalls.
Ghosts and shades
of passionless hope,
we dare not look
at one another.
It is done
and there will be
no more lies, see.
This never happened.
Jean’s Kennel
Personalized Lodging
for Dogs or Cats
24 hr. Attention
Exorcized Daily
going up or
down
I can’t tell which
we can’t face
up
to one another
my eyes
down-
cast
as you look
up
at the nos.
our hopes
a rising &
falling action
Freedom of speech dies on the lips, especially if we have to walk around being hypersensitive that something we might say might egoically offend someone’s poor ego and limited tolerance. The small, limited, narrow-agenda-ed sensitives now rule the Western world and if they don’t like something they hear or see, there is always the Thought Police (is this really any different that 1984′s TP?) of the provincial Human Rights Commissions of various provinces to ride shotgun, coughing up legal fees to assist the complainer, right or wrong against the often innocent, unexpected accused. Automatically assumed guilty before crime is proven for offending some twit’s power-deluded ego.
For a long time, political correctness has reigned in Canada and, ironically, discriminated against thousands of people. For example, men have been considered guilty by virtue of just being male and innocent white folks have been accused, unfairly, of exercising ‘white privilege’. Just about anyone who holds a contrary or different view is liable to be shouted down or hashtagly bullied, vilified, or intimidated online. Far from advancing free speech and open-minded opinion, the ‘net has been a playground for bigotry, hate, ignorance, and the advancement of discriminatory agendas.
Intimidation and disrespect are now the (dis)order of the day and times. Despite whatever “I am Charlie” hindsight-declarations, the mass of men and women are fearful and on edge. We live in a crazy, violent world, and if someone doesn’t like you or doesn’t understand you or irony, you could simply be dead meat. Yeats was right–“The best lack all conviction, while the worst/are full of passionate intensity”. Welcome to our agenda-ed intimidation world.
For many under 25-ers. the modern world sprang, fully-formed, ready-made, from the forehead of some computer whiz like Gates or Zuckerberg. There was nothing different before, ever. Hence, today’s young people’s great alienation from the past and from a more realistic, appreciative view and understanding of those words–context and process.
The facts, cognitive-dissonancely, are, of course, much different with civilizations and cultures stretching back to several thousand B.C. Hence, the phrase, “life was different back then”, which no longer matters to today’s umbilical-screen generation naively, blindly dreaming of some fantasy e-pipedream future. There have been zillions of contexts before the current-e-screen era, Things were different back then.
And it is easy and short-sighted to say so-and-so was a bigot or politically incorrect in a sense that has absolutely no meaning or consequence when viewed processly and long-term, with each age viewed in terms of its own values and beliefs, right or wrong today. Contextually speaking, that is just the way it was back then, and these perceived politically incorrect wrongdoers were often fine, upstanding folk who lived and abided with the prevailing cultural values of the day. They did not live in our time and it is preposterous and stupid to try to hold them to account, and make them the scapegoats and targets of politically-correct hate and criticism.
This topic comes down to perspective and whatever strait-jacketed agendas young moderns have about the past, ‘knowing better or best’. I would submit that young moderns have, in fact, a limited perspective and view of the world if they only judge others in terms of a standard–political correctness–which often only works one way and excludes others’ views and freedoms. ‘Playing God’ we used to call it, expecting others to kow-tow to whatever bigoted ignorance of the truly narrow-minded.
No, context is much larger than an individual’s computer screen, whatever limited info on the Internet, and screen life of the past 15 years. And perspective means a much larger view which may include additional knowledge, training, personal and others’ experiences, as well as an understanding that whatever happens in a context is limited by and to that time and culture.
It all went well
till I got to the end
of Thompson Drive
which ran out of houses
at the edge of the prairie.
No 518. Thompson proper
began in the 400s.
In -30 I trudged
aimlessly
back and forth on Ness
wondering at the glitch:
a customer without
an actual house.
Some 15 minutes
until I noticed a black speck
a football field away
across the barren field.
Could that, irrationally,
be it? It was north
of 400s after all.
The Arctic wind blew
unforgiving from the North
raising snow to
sting and freeze my face
but I got there.
The iron numbers frostily
upon the house: 518.
And was welcomed
by a bent, suspendered man
with thick green glasses:
Mr. Steele, Francis.
Frank, his wiry wife
called him.
She was Dorothy–
Dot, in that last year before
the old guy’s death.
They insisted I come in
and sat me by the window
with a hot drink
looking back toward civilization.
They were grateful
I had come bringing
the news of the world.
The new carrier.
I sat and listened to them
quietly argue for 20 mins.
The old man was nice
and congenial.
She did what he told her
but I wouldn’t have
trusted her for a minute.
Another strange beginning
that winter of yore
being taken in abruptly
to that isolated life.
I wondered at how
they survived
and walking back, realized
why the previous carrier
had quit the route
after Christmas tips.
…………………………
If you check Google view of 518 Thompson Dr., Wpg, you’ll see that a street goes right through where that little house on the prairie was in the late ’50s. That and a light pole and a red fire hydrant. All that’s left of 518, Steeles, and my paperboy youth.
and the world’s overwhelming, undeniable craziness, rapid changes, descent into chaos, fear, hate, ignorance, injustice, violence, selfishness, and accusatory/blaming edginess (these have always been and will always be), there will also be, periodically, personal and shared moments of agreement, connection, communication, warmth, caring, closeness, niceness, cuteness, charm, humour, beauty, love, friendship, calm, peace, hope, freedom, imagination, consciousness. creativity, vision, self-actualization, greatness, magic, and specialness.
He works in cameras at McBain’s
and wears his suits one week at a time.
Most of them are narrow-lapelled
but they go well with his retro skinny ties.
He wears a Canada tie-clip
his mother gave him 50 years ago.
Today he’s 59 and waits on me politely,
“Credit card or debit, sir?”
His small neat boy’s hands can
write up bills and his mouth is ready
to say “Sorry” or “Have a nice day”.
He once thought of getting married
but that was 30 years ago
and his mother wouldn’t hear of it.
Now and then he cracks his knuckles
and a pun–“I’m into film”
he says, straight-faced.
The ‘Life’ of staff parties at the lake
he chases girl-clerks in the woods
but never gets too far.
Ever so often his friends drop by
on their days off.
All of them are 59 and single.
All of them wear narrow-lapelled suits
wear slim ties, live at home
and work for McBain’s.
Margaret meets her mother
for lunch at Edna’s.
They like the Calorie Counter
& the waitress with her hair
in a bun knows them
& calls her mother ‘dear’
as she pours their tea.
Her mother just had her hair
lifted & shot with blue stuff
at the dresser’s.
Grinding her gums
Mom contemplates the custard bar
& remarks how the media
keeps picking on that
nice Stephen Harper.
Margaret smiles beatifically
& rocks the baby’s stroller
to show she cares
her void momentarily filled
by the scratching sounds on 649s
& the clatter of porcelain cups.
