Basically a work in progress,
a frame for the globe daily conjured in the mail
and a sun that never arrives, or never arises,
or maybe no one comes.
Maybe no one suspects coherence
enough to manage nobility anymore:
maybe coming under attack is as benign as it has
been professed to being, but Trinidad
to Tobago is still a leap of proportions
too big for one imagination, one noun, one un.
Answer: congratulate yourself on being or not
being neoliberal, the I in globalization,
taking the are from First Nations, the most
vehement proponent of your own ideals
liberates yourself with a key that enchains
and the Governing General’s sleight in hand
illuminates the colour of race
blindness: raceness, capitalism and the illusion of
disguise in the solitudes; sedatives make nice sediment,
cemeteries.
Forget the economy of absent history.
Forget the evolution of protecting the fragile discourse.
The core of Canadian Canadians in a culture where
easy understandings is the desire to repeat failed attempts.
Expose yourself to your country,
be an in and of itself,
negatively recognize
fantasy of lack of undecidability as ability. It erects itself,
it erects you,
it grudgingly gives itself away.
Perhaps we should be embracing it,
perform performative anxiety,
we must bite it, and not just Canadians.
In nothing but her bra and
layers and layers of underwear,
the lacy script of her scars,
a man in the drifting soul of
a woman’s mother the person’s protagonist is not
in fact telling the story. A child of many limps,
of performing
commas and adjectives,
dozing on sundried parentheses.
In the process, her never male fear at the edge of
the village
flames across the sky where she keeps her skin;
the real monster is a chalky apple
shining like a soldier’s cigarette lighter,
advancing like
the ultraviolet dusk, cropping new crops.
Disavow, disadominate, discuss
words have little genuine interest.