Thursday, April 19, 2007

Feeding Them Canadians

(for Jim and Rojeanne Allworth)

1. feeding them canadians (for carolyn forche)

one day i'll wake up
and my friend Jim
will be prime minister
and he'll still welcome me
to spend the night
at 24 sussex drive

maybe he'll promote me
make me poet laureate
quadruple my salary
$20,000 here I come
I can't sleep i'm so worried

poor jim
poor ro
would they have to put up
with all those grinning murderers
in their kitschy uniforms on state visits
spoiling their appetites
being polite while General Osmosis
the plenipotentiary of Mudpuddle
chuckles, "of course I have 30
crocodiles, but don't worry
I don't feed them any canadians."

and would I choke on my yorkshire pudding
when Gen O. leaned over and whispered,
"you're lucky, i've fed the crocs some poets
but they didn't like them--too bitter."


2. Jim's a thin man, her love

that's him, prime minister jim
go go go, always on the go
how would he deal with Americans
majority obese
obesity contagion USA
end free trade or
would he catch it
our prime minister, get fat or
would they put it on him
his fat suit
like a bulletproof vest
power padding for unfat cats
suomo CEOs everywhere

and would Ro weep
or leap at the chance
to get fat beside
her love, p.m. jim
maybe they'd be fattening up
a battalion of poets
back in the kitchen
hoping to put the piquante
back in the pecking order


3. the feeding habits
of the canadian
blue assed baboon

for $4 million
brian mulroooney
eats bugs

he catches them
in midflight
then savors a sniff
as they fill their panties
from fear
before he snaps their spine
under his thumbnail
and pops them in
his preposterous maw
cracking them
between his canines
like double bubble


4. p for poet
p for pauper
p for pie minister

these poor canadians
hungry for dessert
don't they deserve a cherry pie
are we punishing paupers
like bad boys and girls
sending them to bed without dessert

a man of action,
the prime minister agrees,
has extra cream puffs made
and hundreds offered
out his kitchen door

the media love to bash the poor
maybe there'll be a scandale
headlines screaming
pamperd paupers
creme puffs fer junkies

pm jim replies, it's only fair
the well to do I feed
in my elegant dining room
beneath the crystal chandelier
but, i'm the pm jim for everyone
not just the happy & rich
equal in law, equal in dessert
no freedom without compote
ro drives up, the apple of his eye
truck full of okanagan fruit


5. accounting for the geese

11,000 angels watched in dismay
as the despised prime minister bm
lyin bryin doing nothing illegal
in his sharkskin tuxedo
opened that Swiss bank account
fondling the box key
in his designer underwear

not the same 11, 000 angels
helping you illuminate
the funnies reading by flashlight
under the blanket after bedtime

and not the 11,000
grandpa accepts hover
alongside just out of sight
I can see your angels
can you see mine?
ascending Ford Cove Hill
higher than the geese.

No comments:

cohen

cohen
the sweetest little song

st.ink

st.ink
his heart this big


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.