Month: April 2015

Ça fond dur, cette poème-la

Ah, but it’s like cat’s piss

this regret, weighing worse in the air

in some rooms than others

.

you are missed with a ferocity

that yet may crumple me

and then, no fucking meme of bitten lip passed over

move from memory to a place

where I can at least look at you

in my mind, where else

and recognize that I must thank you

.

rarely do I remember how

.

this is no sea of troubles

.

I ride life in a barque

partly of your design

these seas I lately conjure are

a hypothetical

My beloved heartsblood ideas

are ripe for satire and me

well I’m ready to be rendered

into literary cracklin’ baby

.

I have been watching the culture war

and I have sent my

smelliest rubber boots a wandering

here and there upon it

Rustled my jimmies and parsed

my arse to the stenosing bones

while dealing with blues &

unemployment, learning to breathe

with a cpap machine and fuck it

I did it anyway.  That was the point.

The work often takes longer than we’d like.

 

 

 

 

 

C’était une poème

I sing the infrastructure blues

cause I just can’t get there from here

moving around the world’s damage

while I carry my own

gotta route around the damage

because I gotta see her

she’s just past that road closure

dying in the hospital

and now I must think of all the times

I coulda fixed it

so she would be dying at home

and not on the other end of that

broken highway

Justice for Cindy Gladue

I am very sore today because merely standing triggers my pelvis pain to the point where I drag both my feet.  Also, Paul very efficiently tricked me into mowing the back lawn, so I was really, really sore by the time I was done. 2.0 hours on the cpap – keep forgetting to put the mask back on.

I wrote this in my notebook over a rather lavishly irrigated lunch yesterday.  I went to the rally, which was triggered by this.  As is my custom, I did a square search count of the crowd. It was never fewer than a hundred people and swelled to 150 around 11 am.  Knowing that we were gathered in 20 cities across Canada (including Saint John’s NFLD, where it was ass freezing cold and blowing snow) made me very proud.  And sore, as I mentioned.  I am going to pick up another one of those mini-chairs from Lee Valley, I simply cannot stand for an hour and a half without problems.

So I was angry when I wrote this.  I am still angry, but it’s the quiet, smoldering kind.

Edited for errors in usage and kindness Feb. 20 2021, the day I learned Bradley Barton is going to jail.

April 2, 2015 unceded Coastal Salish land. MST LAND

Canada is the kind of country where a sex trade worker deserves to die for being a sex trade worker.  If she’s Indigenous, and ‘somehow’ ends up with an 11 inch stab wound which is paraded through the courtroom in a specimen jar in a grotesque parody of a ceremonial object, she had it coming.  Somehow the fact that a misogynistic piece of sh*t named Bradley Barton murdered her in a drunken stupor gets dropped from the equation, and he left the trial a free man.

I’ve been angry at the Canada ‘justice’ system before. Lots.  But I don’t normally get off my ass to protest.

Cindy Gladue did not deserve to die.

She didn’t get justice.

Her children and her family and loved ones did not get justice.

I am enraged that Cindy Gladue and her 1200 and counting indigenous sisters are being treated by the justice ‘shitstem’ as entirely disposable human refuse.  The UN has asked Canada to investigate.  Harper says it isn’t even on his radar.

F*CK THIS RACIST SEXIST ENTIRELY HORSESH*T SYSTEM.

It’s gotta come down.

Let it come down.

With unity of purpose and steel in our veins, let us BRING IT DOWN.

There were 150 of us in front of the Courthouse yesterday. Indigenous and white and mixed and ‘other’.  We were men and women and non-binary and children. We wept and drummed and sang and screamed our disappointment and anger that Indigenous lives are forced to be so far from justice, or even its prospect or possibility.

Justice for Cindy Gladue.

Companions

Lady Miss Banjola’s kitty Toby has crossed the rainbow bridge, and I really feel for her and the Beanpie.  They live with us every day, with their moods, and their fur and their appetites, and their surprises, and then the only surprise is how fast they exit, and how our grief pangs us.  I only met him a couple of times.  He was a fine companion, and he will be missed.

In about an hour I’m going to do something I rarely do.  I’m going to get off my duff and go protest something.  More after I get back.

1.8 hours last night.  I cleaned the hose (I almost wish somebody had recorded my death struggle with the damned thing, it was probably amusing to watch) and although my face didn’t hurt, I forgot to put it back on when I took it off in the middle of the night.  I’m usually good for one sleep cycle and then RRRRIP.  Must remember to apply eye goop.  I couldn’t get my eyes open for about ten minutes this morning.

 

No mask for me

The mask pushed into my gums where the dentist assaulted me yesterday, but I should be okay for tonight, and I did get a lovely sleep with all that acetominophen chasing through my sensorium.

Agents of Shield is so boring, confusing, and emotionally trying that I just don’t want to watch it any more.  I keep hoping that there will be cool CGI but no dice.  Comic book plotting is hard on the nerves.

Justified, on the other hand, serves up plot twists and turns that you don’t see coming and couldn’t actually foresee and yet feel more true to life and more emotionally accurate than all the bushwah in Agents of Shield put together.

So, not great to watch the two shows back to back.

There’s only one episode of Justified left and if it’s anything like the last one it will be a wringer.

Bills all paid.