THE DEAD PEOPLE
have you met them? the dead people?
i'm beginning to know the dead people
people with permanent bad breath
people who drink dirt by the gallon
whistling worm hotels
molecules tartare avec capers
eternity's breakfast
yumyum
have you met them?
i'm beginning to know them
snort dirt by the shovelsful these
dead people breathe bugs and chalk
and doodoo
the dead people
swimming thru the coffee joints i'm
beginning to know their birthdays
the dead people's addresses
the names of the dead people's animals
the phone numbers
of the dead people's intimates
the dead people jammed up in traffic
swimming from telephone booths
in their no piece bathing suits
from barbecue to bonfire
in no time flat
from saskatoon to squamish
in a blip
tho it's true
the dead people
are in no hurry
the dead people got
time to rot
time to burn
time to get to know you better
you know them?
Hornby Island by Goh Poh Seng (for Billy Little, who shared loved spots and fond friends)
Here on the headland by Downe's Point
we case dreams to rise
synchronous with eagles and gulls,
all make-believe, egocentric,
near to fanatical,
else aim true to roam deep
with Leviathan in the ocean's mind,
free from perplexities and profundities
such as bind the scheduled self
Here is the arbutus grove
whose trunks and branches tighten
like nerves, twisted witnesses,
victims of shapely winds
which blow in always unseen,
sweet from the south
or coming cold from the north,
from every direction
the prevailing force of nature
Wish I could emulate the arbutus
slough off my thin skin as easily
as these natives trees their bark
from abrasion, disdain or design,
unveiling the bare beauty
of strong, hard wood beneath
Over on Fossil Bay
the rot of herring roe
strewn amongst broken clam shells, dead crabs
on dirty grey sand, exposed bedrock,
thickened the morning air,
but gave no cause for bereavement:
these millions of botched birthings!
And none also for the Salish,
no open lamentation for a race
almost obliterated without trace
from their native habitat
save a few totems, some evidences of middens,
a score of petroglyphs of their guardian spirits
carved a thousand years ago
on smooth flat rock by the shore,
of killer whales, Leviathans again,
to guide their hunts,
the destiny of their tribe.
Having retraced them
gently with finger tips,
they now guide mine.
Halo by Patrick Herron (for Billy Little)
half of love
plus half of half
is halo and I
don't believe
in angels, no.
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