storefront poetry

21

by the elvis (presley in
leather     not costello) clock
on bookshelf end     i see it’s
about time to wrap today
but first . . . more photos
of me in action (oui     two words)
will be taken . . . my camera
has not yet captured me at
the typer in residency here
in grande prairie and tomorrow
this ends . . . hopefully with
a full two dozen poem pages
written and taped to the windows
a cookie and cappuccino reward
the fireweed gone to gossamer
seed wispy as fairies in the dell
or the monarch’s milkweed sticks
to pants and arms     sleeves     as
it’s ready to travel to wherever
you’re going consciously or un-
—folk wolf loup farkas vük—
all of us monkeys at the inkwell
dipping our tail tips then brush
the paper the canvas the wailing
wall rocks by the river tree trunks
hoping to make letters to write words

24-25sept20008


22

no laptop computer on today’s
desk beside the ol’ north star
war correspondent typewriter
é the only sticky letter
metal finger worn-out back
in the day back in the zone
the geese are not yet leaving
are feeding on the wheat oats
and barley on harvested fields
the past week’s fallen leaves
have turned to sticking brown
mush atop brick sidewalks and
in kurb & guttered roadways
the highway west and northwest
swept clear by convoys of white
trucks coming from or off to
collect their next merit badge
of oil patch dirt     three cheers
for those lucrative overtime hours
heard in the gymnasium auditorium
but not everyone cheered     some
celebrate words and trust sharing
giving selflessly without being
asked and are there time and again
the paths to wealth not the only
ones grossing this vast land

25sept2008



23

morning-after elements lump
in york hotel parking lot
beside herd of wild horses beer
store and a really green emerald
taxi mini van or they hang . . .
hug wall under too small roof lip
shelter outside riker’s—cold
and too skinny or rounded fat
looking double their years worn
cnleopseod in the pre-stein hours
c.o.d. and letter carriers double
bagged with real mail and junk
smile under their blue boonies
delivering bills and whathaveyou
good goals but poor tactical are
a parachute that doesn’t open
or your seat as a flotation
device when the water is small
as a downed kite’s string in grass
it’s too late to not tell them
i write poems not ad copy not
adventure novels or literature
i didn’t apply for rcmp training
the army navy air force with my eyes
nor to sell new and used cars

25sept2008


24

i have spent some of the best
days of my life making salads
bicycling along riverside trails
writing poems in artist residencies
i have wasted days in file cabinets
of heartless administrative paper
in the potwasher’s corner staging
rebellion instigated by hererik
i have been blind numb dumb
to the interest in me by others
to the concerns wants and dreams
to my best potential to share
i have fallen asleep in the act
have seized up like an oil-dry engine
or soldier sensing a landmine
underfoot—injury and death the options
i have wasted my mind for countless
days and nights in the kitchens of
others for their profit and leisure
in the bottles and tins of oblivion
i has swam in rivers lakes canals
several oceans and seas of this world
and lain in sand and on hillsides and
been held in the grip of other animals
i want to hug and kiss and laugh
my way my days with genuine smiles

25 Sept 2008