Elsewhere In Dreams

i once wrote
songs for my lovers

for nicotine &
alcohol & theology

for the girl who disappeared
for the girl who would not leave

for undone dishes &
wrinkled clothes

for philosophy &
science & god

but now
i count it a good day

when i wake up before 8
manage to wash my face
manage to scrape away the stubble
before i leave

shuffle off to toss myself
again & again
against the wall

it was a good day i say to myself
as my fingers

bloodied and many-times broken
no longer able to form the chords
no longer able to hold the pen

twitch
elsewhere in dreams

where a good day
is good

All my neighbours are monsters:
they spout plumes of almond fog from their
tanks and armoured cars every morning;
they grill the dripping flesh
of innocent animals in the evening;
they unsheathe grumbling scythes and lay low
great swaths of greenery on the weekend;
the bouquet of their slaughter drifts
over the border, over that token wall.

All my neighbours are Mongol hordes:
they fly screaming across the sky
and parachute into empty houses;
they drift, ghosts behind glass,
ghosts behind wound fabric;
they bear unfamiliar arms
that stutter gutturally;
tributes rise every year;
we look, longing, to the north.

Wind down the gears of industry.
Turn the keys, all the keys,
and let the grease-stricken
engines explode to a stop.

Shutter the libraries.
Shred all the books except the books
that say they must be shredded.

Sell the trees above and the iron beneath,
and the sawmill, and the smelter,
to the great Uncle who cannot help
his appetites.

A few lakes away an indentured
servant turns the wrench
you once turned, proudly.

The best and brightest have taken
their wagons and gone.
All that remains is a semi-precious
twilight in Ontario.

There is a small yellow bird that whispers
in my ear and tells me to love you.
It says, Move this way and that,
Say this thing or this other thing.
It says, There is no better place,
There is in fact no other place at all.

I am helpless as long as this small yellow bird
keeps whispering in my ear.
I am helpless as long as this bird that I made
so long ago keeps whispering.

There more words than in
your slim dictionary,
more letters than your
alphabet knows.