Thursday, May 14, 2015

Cymbal taps & Cosey's
steel guitar like light May
rain along the fence
at Morden colliery.
The former 'pride of industry'
defunct, admired now
by Prius mom 'n dad
up island for the weekend.
They moved the town by rail,
dud cheques stacked
in the superintendent's hut like
so much cordwood
& now these Goretex
assholes want to preserve it,
like bulb garlic nailed
to the wall in grandma's
kitchen? Things naturally
fall apart. After spring rain,
Players butts, maple helicopters,
pulpy chunk gyproc
& a blackbird's chewed-off wing
gather near the base
of Scotchtown Road hill.
Primitive accumulation. Putting
things side by side, not aesthetic choice,
but index.

 -That sounds like a lot of work! 
Smart poets pursue a
'poetics of leisure' (Paul
Nelson). Or 'pleasure'
(Rolf Mauer). Or anxiety,
peforming a sense of
urban unwelcome -- 'wearing out
their knees' on the mat.
Even that grey stucco
Adanac apartment's.
'In BC you could get
away from the state
by walking uphill
barefoot for ten minutes'
or an hour and a half
on the Queen of Coquitlam,
grey city shrinking
like the Deltaport's lights,
a floating psychic equilibrium
reestablished by distance.

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