homefront

ok, i’ll tell you where i live but

don’t come seething: stretched cross them

blankets traded fur for smallpox:

smallbox

to live in

.

these parts partial to dollar signs

dinners wrapped in tinfoil-n-trees quick

look! last chance save tomorrow to see

some thing profound

natural, illuminate

by the sun then them moon stars:

not no, not none of them no, them fake

lights that inebriate this city

when the trees go down

.

transfixed fictions of some better

brick and chloroform

plastic handy little sub / division

revisions – public waste

where methane shadows take

cover in the cracks

the veins

the sense of agency

.

rivers run dank shit smell red

your wrist

if you cut it

.

fuck it – not where you live

.

i remember when: buffalo

on the cutbanks

moose herds on Queensway left

droppings to dodge

.

smiles at the prospect

their a dime a dozen ( them people

herds ( out to the fringe

industry

back to the metropolitan off city centre

parking lot smell of revolution

.

everybody’s got a secret

ours is a stench

.

think back, like a microwave in reverse, when

these streets were trails – stories were spoken

stink was a quality – selling out wasn’t an option

home was everywhere

.

them city / in fluoresces

them fucking reservations

.

hold out this place in your hand

offer up – then withdraw

squeeze

ink out

till the map

no longer carries names

or direction

.

both hands in the melting pot

.

the transit derails someday

heading south: past them red trees

(insufficient sub zero

(winters:

nostalgia – astringency for

the season

passing on in silence

.

picks-up some autonomy and

returns home with a belly

full:

of Pacific salmon

.

here, we are voices muffled

over-exaggerated / agitated assailant

hushed in

by big trucks

pinch-point chip-belts

beehive burners and smoke stacks

band saw teeth

gas alarms

sirens vibrate / pulsate from

the frame of this basin

tire rubber with engine brakes

fakes

gunshots and silent alarms

/ fallen woodland

agricultural wasteland

snow on its tip toes

adolescent acid rain and

abandoned street corners /

.

the voices here

a configuration of nerve endings

that blitz

tiny impulse sells

shifting – switching and

absent

.

seasonal depression stalks

like Monday morning and

all that there over

consumption

– even the blackbird leaves us

come winter…

.