Monday, September 12, 2016

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




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