Standard Average Canadians

Standard Average Canadians

it feels secretive

languid

listening to

Man Machine Poem

after dark in his

basement apartment

the kind-hearted drummer & I

make our anchorage

cross-legged on baggy pillows

beneath tawny rondure lights

walls festooned with sad totems

hand-made birch bark canoes &

a burning vision of Irving Layton

                framed

everything entertainingly fussy

we huddle with

aromatic smolder

cold Clementina San Pellegrino

paralleling our pocket knives

folders of hand-written poems

                construing Gord’s lyrics

“tearin’ up the pea patch, isn’t he”

                he says in halted speech

“like rushing the dark with pious light”

                I reply timorously

& just like that he cartwheels over

                the chesterfield & fails

I laugh so hard I spit out a mouthful

                of stars

we group again with snacks

warm garlic knots & dipping sauce

& he delivers a blistering lecture

of my interpretation of the record

                                as a whole

                the needle rebounds & crackles

a gentle warning

                he chides

for reading too much into the chaos

discerning a pattern that might not

                be there

I shrink to the shape of a fraud

                chip like shale

& he says

“it’s a precarious time

for the Caribou, we are the

Ancient Pines singing & praying for

the sky clap to send us downstream,

& the cancer spirits to map their way

to another world – don’t buckle under

the weight of occasion”

the kind-hearted drummer

draws a clean breath

cradles my shrugged shoulder

with a meaty palm & squeezes

                “we listen with the

Intention to live, it is the way

of the Poet …

words survive”

it feels melancholy

as we separate from     

the floor boards to

say goodnight &

gather up all the clever things

he runs a comb under a slow

running tap

                then through his hair

I zip my jacket tight under-chin

                I walk home through

inky midnight    

I ponder the evening’s

decorous language

                                acrobatic humour

calming potions

                easy listening

                gathering gratitude

I long for our

next meeting

after dark           

                in his basement apartment

eating hand-cut fries &

                juicy burgers with BBQ sauce

relish mustard & sharp cheese

a Bugs Bunny film-fest

& name brand ketchup chips

                disagreeing about

used bookstores & punk-rockers

                politics passions

& practical magic

I imagine we will revisit

                Man Machine Poem

interpret Gord’s lyrics again

 two Standard Average Canadians

                trying to decipher love

 **

Just a wee work-in-stages. It took some time to peck this one out. I was uber inspired Friday while I was up to my eye-balls in work but I scribbled in between the numbers crunch and then added/subtracted/re-arranged a bit over the weekend. I lost my steam by Saturday evening and wasn't feeling one bit creative so today while slurping soup, I pecked until I was glad. I'm glad.

Happy Monday.

In propinquity,

Nic