Predictably, the house was not there
Predictably, it didn’t matter because the beginning
was a farce. Predictably, he believes that narrative
can organize the filing cabinet. Predictably, he tried
to subvert in a dream and fly above himself and circle
a broken, black and stringless lyre. Predictably,
his ashes were scattered in Baghdad. Predictably, his ashes sang.
He is in search for a lost music. He is searching of the lost music
of a lost body. His circulation drums inside his veins.
He wants to destroy something or build a stone tower.
He wants to run up a mortgage and run himself to death paying for it.
He is imbricated like a gutter tile.
He could invent a self to inhabit.
Last night, he returned to Thunder Bay.
Last night, Terry Fox was frozen like an ice-berg.
Last night, Canada switched bodies with the United States.
Last night, he droned like a swarm of bees.
Last night, he met the Indian man at Tim Hortons
who said that he was writing a book called “The Good Life.”
Last night, he was shooed away with a shoe
because he asked the man where he lived. Last night, a roof looked like a mast
for a ship-building empire. Last night, the ground beneath his feet.
Last night, his body morphed into the stranger who comes into hushed
village peddling knifes.
Last night, the man stamped on a bush to make sure the bush
wouldn’t light on fire. Last night, absence
was like a cleavage of tongues. Last night, the man asked him
if he was possessed by a language. Last night, a rainstorm
of bed sheets. Last night, the man thought it was demeaning to ask where
he came from. He understood the ways in which minds are under-erasure
and the good life comes to be. When trace becomes scream. He’ll tear this space
down in a couple of months and leave poetry behind once and for all.
Poetry is for poets. He wants to vanish into another relation. The current
flowed against him. At the GO station, he almost walked into the belly
of a revolving door. Every night something eats away at him until he is both
occupied and occupier…he’s been tracing fingers in the sky.
Walk over a mine. Explode to find the intercultural dimensions
of the metaphor.
I searched for God and arrived at my father’s door
in a foreign country I became the door for him
to myself. I am the hanging hinge
of your burnt down house opening to you.
You walk through and unscrew me.
Father crosses over. He is crossing over in his sleep.
We type a delirium. Night is nothing but night.
How many times do I have to repeat this before I become a fascist?
We began this narrative when he saw the last child to sit down after the national anthem, dispersed. When the last child left the room, the room was peopled he had never heard of.
By songs there is a river song we could bathe our bodies. We will make river metaphors that root and cross into this anguished sleep.
O Canada of hinge narratives. O Canada of opening and closing doors.