the sky is full of Alberta
that stalwart cloak of green
that DEW line shielding the eastern provinces from the
aerial assault of off-gassed methane
igniting in one long curving line and taking with it our
hopes for a safe and happy summer
as the sweetgrass dreams of grassy inland oceans
are buried by the silty ruins of the last great extinction
I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
a liminal state
awake but wrongly
the morning uninevitable
though it is always morning somewhere
what is a morning but the night’s fist unclenching
present always but not noticed until it strikes
rattling your old bones
the earth dragged onward
spiraling through all that night
that fist
opening again and again
and closing
and us
raked by cosmic winds
barely clinging
all our ambitions a smear on glass
a concrescence of matter
a chance
I practice a form of time travel called insomnia
or maybe it practices me
Everyone goes on about the human/cat and human/dog relationship.
What about the human/chicken relationship?
Simply, put those bastard bustards are delicious. They’re tamable, foolish, and delicious. But if you as a paleolithic human have the patience to not simply eat every one you catch, they will make you endless protein in the form of eggs and more chickens.
I expect this was a major development in human awareness. When we attained the sense-knowledge that compassion and care lead to better outcomes than surrendering to base appetites.
I know from personal experience: you can cuddle chickens.
Perhaps we underestimate one of our most valuable animal companions.
After all, there is a certain humility to be found in the act of making friends with something you will eventually eat.
there’s no such thing as clouds she said
I asked her to explain
she said
the clouds are just a metaphor
if you touch them
they aren’t there
dissolved by our attention
like particles avoiding a dark plate
suspended in ten thousand tons of water
depending on which technician lifts the lid
huge somethings made of nothing
the weight of mountains
mist fading from your grasp
before you even close your hand
a metaphor, she said
for water’s longing for the sea
(2022)
thefixer.home.blog 