Nowhere, B.C.

Thursday, April 19, 2007

writing like mad: DON'T GET

(for you all honeychilds)

suaves of kitchsilano
did you remember to turn off delight
or is this the make believe dark
the dark you have to imagine

sipping styrofoam and
munching pesticide pie

the fish and the river
forgot their poison
in the spawning

when you make a killing
on the stock market
it's no metaphor
nor is punching the clock

stay unemployed
the longer you stay unemployed
the less production the less production the less consumption

the less pollution
the longer you don't cut down trees
the longer we'll all breathe
the less you drive to work
the slower the global warming
the slower the tidal rising
every day you can keep from working
is another day your grandchildren
will live to enjoy
unless unconscious
others fall fools
exulting victim to overtime
don't succumb to the addiction of employment
don't surrender your poor tired brain to advertising
beat that depraved excess of manufactured needs
don't be a money junkie
we'll die soon enough
get out of the rut hurrying death along stop working have a

heart
help the planet stop working
give yourself a silver star for every day you don't work
a gold star for every week maybe those unemployed longest
get increased benefits and pictures in the paper
achieving the status of local heroes
star in videos How Fred Doesn't Work
How Frieda Doesn't Work
the less time you waste working
the more time you have to think up
a brilliant way out of this predicament
right now you can
stop driving to the store for ice cream
start walking or do without.

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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.