a darkness

Darkness of self-satisfaction
Extends further than my small hand can grasp, or warm
I feel beyond the veil of my misunderstanding
Not one possibility but six hundred and more, dampened
and stifled
and scuffed but nowhere near dead

Like a cat with poor vision, twisting its head
Around and from side to side
I try to fix eyes stark as coloured glass
On the correct impressions

My spirits, various and needy
fly about with tarot faces
Or lie about, complaining of misogyny
There is no medicine in the argument

I’m tired of hearing about it he says
I’m tired of hearing about it he says

Did he hear it once
Hearing
was it all he did

I need to clean my ears
Close my mouth

Of the nations splintered when Columbus came
He says but they enslaved
An NDN voice’s response on social media
-Angry- Cite your sources, you stupid white man
&
Of the nations pummelled back from the coast
He says but what are they doing now
And I say language revitalization
And he says where is their standing army
Can’t have a nation without a standing army
And I’m literally reading the Icelandic sagas
And not only did the Icelanders have their own goddamned country
They did it without an executive branch AND no standing army
And produced the greatest literature of medieval Europe
So go fuck yourself on that point
&
Of the nations who never ceded land
He says how do they expect to take it back
And I think to myself
O love your tower of books is now a prison

Words boil up, the well-loved face goes hard

They, they, they, and not
we, we, we.

I have responses, gleaned
From a longhouse and a glass pipe
Buried in the ground,
Right through the bones of dead Indians
How ‘nice’
Academics and dancers
They have told me what to say
But I said nothing.
I don’t want the fun of my visit to go away

There’s no such thing as race he says.

If you’re smart
You don’t say that when you’re white
And that pulls down more ire

I dreamed a grandmother, wizened
Wearing a blanket and street clothes
Came into the house
(Which the bank, independent of
the Musqueam and Sto:lo
said that I never owned)
And asked me
Am I not welcome here

Dreams are full of muffled silences

You can’t know how long they’ll last

And genocides, if no one calls them by name
Are best distributed; a little death here
A little dislocation there; days in the skookum house
And nights with fentanyl, hiding in the hit.

I am glad

 

I am glad that I am older
because when I was younger
I thought fireworks were friendly fun
But carrying a baby while John shot that roman candle at me *
made me think
maybe I’m wrong
It’s one idea, among them all
but if I have to call it right or good
this is not the one

*it was not deliberate and I had agency over my distance.

I am glad that I am older
thanks to some crucial luck
at birth ‘n every year come since
I lived long enough to come to understand that all this luck
is held up
by a thing
called white supremacy
and now I have to come up with some proof
that I give a fuck

I am glad that I am older
and my loved ones help pay for my time
to think about how to heal this hurt
I lived long enough to look at it as a lot of work
a lot of
fucking work
Like more than I could do in one small lifetime
but I know
what is owed
Don’t want to be a jerk

 

So I started writing this after eleven and it just banged the noon gong. There is a very powerful melody for this and apart from additional voices, one trombone and two french horns I can’t hear any orchestration and I’m basically okay with it being solo voice. I should record a scratch track. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I DO NOT WANT TO DO THIS THING RIGHT NOW.

I will however continue to sing it through until the tune quits wriggling around quite so hard.

traces

Clouds have heft in this town, no-one thinks
they’re insubstantial, however they hover,
dance, slide by each other at different speeds
each one as heavy as an elephant

In the weeks of our cloudless summer
We gaze above our toothed horizons in puzzlement

The herds that graze the sky have all migrated.

Poem – the state of discourse

 

 

does it help that I called you on your birthday
yes
that is a ‘yes’
but below that tidal crest of astonishment

that it is only accidents which provide me with
my shine
not anything I do

and I let go of the designs of things
moving backward through understanding
into confusion again

I wanted to speak to you, and there, I have

but that’s not ornate enough
for my mood

I’m thinking of you
putting your game face on
to send me a chapbook

what is a book but a tree
given speech

what is a friend but my heart
given another home

a poem – The universe is a sieve

JUST IN CASE YOU’RE WONDERING, I didn’t know it was world poetry day before I wrote this today.

 

 

The universe
is a sieve
that passes through us

and laughs as it
rushes through.

Pew pew pew
say the particles;
we’re on our way
to connect your kidneys

to a star
an ecosystem
an ice volcano.

It’s one long string
connected
folded tight
blown up
and travelling light.

The universe is a sieve

she’s on that poetry thing again – The people they chose

the endearing fascist is everywhere

o,O

the words are a smear of nice, a pretend of nice, a klieg light of nice that burns everything
that’s good and makes it nice, nice, nice
everything orderly

this is a map and these are the lines
and inside these lines we are nice

and I with disrumption have come
have come, and ev-e-ry niceness is glum, was glum.
Tripulations and farkakte derivations of bad things
are apiece with nice,
bakelite
worked
into
one of van Meegeren’s canvases

hanging in a steady machine tic of nice
nice
nice

(THIS IS A CULTURAL TREASURE)

but if you test it, it is not

so apt is my example

Nice is a mill that grinds little Black girls into powder
or tries, and fails to succeed in a vale of Death
just so she doesn’t forget what she’s up against
Nice is the good white girl with almost perfect teeth
who has Done Something Nice
in a perfectly recursive way,
at this point it hardly matters what ; those
people on the receiving end of nice
normally do not get
an opinion

Nice is the nun
educating Cree boys

into a nicer understanding
of their true place in the real world

It’s not for me to say which way is nicer
I already know and you don’t much care, being at the end of the poem

but as for me and the tirelessly nice and
clueless gallery of my colonial foremothers
whom I am pressed to carry now that I have grandchildren
I will choose the lands, and the people they chose
and stay out of your very nice heaven

RIP recording artist Sophie

And they died
climbing up to see the moon
in Athens
and their life
was a goodies reel of cool
the patterns

they are not
for everyone to see
and our lives,
the red carpet,
will never see their light again
pop that bubble in the rain
and dance while you can
remember their joy
remember their name
:Sophie:

They made very entertaining bubble gum dance pop.

Moving day

moving day

moving day

if you can’t pay the rent you’ll have to live out in a tent because it’s

moo

ha oo

ha oo-ving day

Katie rented the truck for today and goes to pick it up at 10 am; I’ll go over to Planet Bachelor this forenoon and help out how I can. Jeff and I are so glad we’re not moving right now it’s quite remarkable.

Here is a lovely poem, with some context.

9,189 9443 words

As we come up on the Inauguration I find myself more and more frightened. I tell myself that Trmp and his people are too stupid to manage an insurrection, but it’s really the grift that’s the point, but I’m still afraid of good people dying, and the number of people in Canada who feel the same way as the Trumpites is huge, and this is a long term problem that will not go away.

Image

Cartoon of a donkey and an elephant. In the first frame Donkey’s placard reads UNITY and the Elephant’s F*** YOUR FEELINGS. The second frame the donkey’s placard is ACCOUNTABILITY and the elephant’s now covered in rainbows and butterflies, says UNITY.  NICK ANDERSON A RÉALISÉ CE DESSIN

fash demo at the inHOGuration?

TTTO Robin in the Rain.
Kettled in the rain
all the silly fashies
Maced into pain
falling on their ashies
begging all the popo not to be so mean
after all they’re white, although their feet aren’t clean
Kettled in the rain, all the silly fashies
Insurrection makes you gay <—– sarcasm
Bet the popo wish that you had stayed at home
Fashie on a rainy day.

2021 – the year of living ancestorily

So for 2021, this blog is going to change up a bit. There will be at least one drafted post that goes live every day. (I’ve started pre-posting awready.)  The hope is that I will put together useful or historical facts or just … information that’s easy to find arranged by subject PLUS post a song every day.

Now this involves many different KINDS of posts; some will be PDF’s, some MP3s, some videos, but there will be a song a day. I thought about posting it to youtube, but…. it’s a toxic waste dump that I have virtually no control over. And yes, some of the song posts will be from previous posts, but there will be a particular category: Song a Day 2021

And then, if I have the energy, I’ll write about laundry and cooking and grandson goo and boring domestic shit and progress on my writing projects – that none care about but me.

The point is that I am going to highlight my lifetime of achievement because I’m tired of always thinking to myself that I haven’t accomplished anything in my life. Taken all together, why yes I have. I was autistic and had ADD and mental health issues the whole time, too.

I’m considering password protecting my content or at least some of it, and I’m considering moving the blog to a VPS, after non-definitive discussion with Jeff.

I’m also thinking about money and immortality, a lot, but it’s nothing bad. I just want to eat steak for a thousand years while I drink beer and write nasty shit about misogynist slurs like Jordan Peterson.

By the way mOm the cat poets are Lu You and Liu Zhongyin

Not going outside

Image