Contro Verse 3
moose at the forest edge
cross the meadow in the sun
munching browse little trees
head up sniffing on the breeze
easy easy ecotone easy
filament barnacle billabong
troubadour trouble away
letting the big moose speak
his turn came yester-fore-day
"Our" government removes protections from navigable waters. We remove
that government in election. "Our" new government keeps
its same non-protection regimes.
If we let the waters speak
how will the government learn to listen, when the waters can only say
as much as we agree to hear, if the waters only hear
what we say to them in common prayer?
hermit monk called to the royal court
bamboo flute pulled from under their robe
played a single note that began softly
built volume slowly to a fully vibrating wooden tube
then faded as a bird flying toward the horizon —
as a fish or bird swimming into
oily orchestral chaos
Industry, they tell me, builds useful products, makes jobs
with good pay. But in any market I can see plastic crap
from China that will disappoint and fall apart way too soon.
Cheap goods as a sideline to profits? — what industry becomes;
workers' lives traded for profits? — what industry becomes
when wealth sees its role — to fuck itself furiously in usurious
abuse — procreating more wealth, for only itself.
crazy, the heart scatters gold dust to the wind,
accumulated mounds passed all around the room
all around the town
the round world too
Blasphemy profane, idiots' nonsense, irresponsible dream.
Ephemeral March, April, May, passing spring when Jesus returns
in the long moment of forgiving grace,
struggling free from systems of belief —
to see the year growin greensward
and bower, wind-blown leaf, bumblefly, bee, pollen and flower
count the lovers two by two
eons of dew drops
count the stars count the trees
the polished shell of identity cracks open
mediated by mendacious accomplices
a raw egg-like flow fluidly seeps out
under the television lights
grasping at newsprint and the crackling instant
his criminal gang sops up the goo
squeezes it back into broken visage
will he speak?
does enbridge pump gas?
does police weaponry rule the imperial streets?
behind the crew's sheltering backs
the executive smoothes out his inflammatory tie
sticks a fractured illusion of self
together with styptic pencil and toilet tissue patches
as if mere scratches on a limousine’s glossy finish
teleprompter's automated speech flipping sentences
discourse slurred by brain farts
welter of fatuous lies unpackable for reckoning
the public presentation proceeds
prepared script calls for improvised rant
is it from the depths of consciousness?
or failure psychopathic within the machine?
askant we stand
entranced by performative virtue
each an empericist asking
why be blindly addicted
by exploiting images
falling out in continuous stream