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collect the provinces like limited-edition peace coins and hockey cards
but i wouldn’t part with those cape breton oilers, not for all the golden aces of the yukon
or the fierce teenage poetry of a Downie-filled van, a rotting quilt, a longing for the wild west
and the great white north - both ravenous - to the last inch of straw and snow
i fear and revere every coked-up mother’s son who whipped around the shaft on a length of chain
shuffled from crew to crew like the jokers they are, lost amid the decks of their grandfathers’ tales
"when the derricks were made of wood and when the men were made of iron"
"we are not what we once were, and we shall never be so again"
after i pay these tabs and settle these debts please pack up what’s left and hop it on a train
an eastbound maritime-ontario two-story boxcar
let me wind around the bumps of northern new brunswick, walking in a grid can’t be good for the soul
no, walking in a grid for so long can’t be too good for the soul
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2. |
Rarely A Great Notion
03:15
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leland, climb awake again
sit up straight and roll the makings tight
lean back against the spruce headboard
strike out the last three lines you wrote your wife
sometimes dear, i drink so much coffee i can’t get to sleep
spectre and fear flit beyond the frosty panes
daylight creeps across the quilt
stalking guilt and fear like yearling game
sink back into the rotting stump
throw the core into the hungry woods
track your prey - bare footprints and hooves in long carpet
sometimes, dear, i drink so much that i can’t stay awake
and hunt all night for the right things to say
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3. |
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we duct-taped newspaper around our wrists and bound them up in twine
raised them up and brought them down, each by each, in time
trying to smash every bit of glass from the yellow hummer
with “fastrak” on the license plate, dirty evil motherfucker
i broke my wrist
i broke three fingers and my wrist
i swing a hammer, i bear a herald of a country with no name
i sweep your streets, i fix your roofs, i keep you dry and i keep you clean
we are the great unwashed
it’s the simple truth
how can you see and not believe?
it’s the fucking truth
we duct-taped newspaper around our wrists, and bound them up in twine
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4. |
Slip Waltz
04:11
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me and the ghost of my lonely take a stroll into town
every now and then when the sun is coming up or going down
past the evergreen grove in the graveyard
where we kissed in the snow at the turn of the century
the tawny appaloosa light on your linen dress
you unbuttoned my shirt and laid a hyacinth on my swelling chest
i don’t wear a band on my ring finger
just a bandage every now and then
glass is sharp and the shards are quick
i can see through to the truth beneath my skin
blood and panes and lights and gin
i imagine us old and reclining close
our manes become a single thing
every colour of a fox’s coat
the smell of fog and evergreen
i miss the solitude and assurance
of first and second loves
i miss the warmth of loves that never fired
love in my pocket like a folding knife
love in the ground for another life
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5. |
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oak seeds and their tenders meet
as autumn 'lights on clever wing
clutching tightly last year’s crown of leaves
to get pushed out by our next year’s spring
winter’s short, we must go north
some greater force can keep us kindled warm indoors
sharing seas, yielding salt
talk 'til dawn in humming darkness baring fault
timid toes fear the cold but ignore the undertow
timid toes feeling bold but afraid of letting go
the cats here aren’t as forward or friendly
as they are in cher st-henri
but they still offer their medical advice
and whisker out the settings and the nights
tawny plaid, kneading paws
unseeded dreams clutched tenderly in purring jaws
snapdragon eggs, junior boots
painted skies, seek starry nights, need berry juice
timid toes fear the cold but ignore the undertow
timid toes feeling bold but afraid of letting go
timid toes, wagging tail, can you feel the embers glow?
timid toes feeling bold as the roots begin to grow
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6. |
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barely remember that night
out on the lawn til the east started leaking light
shouting aloft at the chimney pots
"you sons of bitches’ll never get me in here"
i must’ve fallen asleep at the farm
under the branches, out of reach of the flickering warmth
i woke up angry and confused as i’m often prone to do
and flung my half-drunk beer at the telephone wire
as i staggered home alone i thought of maybe getting going
but this town still remembers my name
smoking cigarettes up on the fire escape
that transformer blew its load - a lawsuit fireworks display
since then that block’s burned down, strewn nostalgic on the ground
but that town still remembers our names
i must have fallen asleep at the bar
woke up drooling on my sleeve in the back seat of your car
sweating death into my collar for the sun to cake as shame
but that town is pretty good at that game
i’ll miss the graveyard and the fog at five AM
i’ll miss taking every step knowing exactly where i am
i miss getting drunk at lunch and climbing back up to the roof
patching that town that still remembers my name
this one’s for all the girls i never kissed
but in retrospect much more for the finger-full i did
so few know their part in the gin-soaked rural heart
of the town that still remembers my name
none of this looks any good on the resumes we keep re-writing
none of this gains any ground on the self-addressed arguments i keep fighting
i’m not sure what i think of the city
it’s pretty fun but after a while fun gets to feeling pretty shitty
i packed up and left so that some cold hard place could make a bad joke out of me
(no matter how long i stay and no matter what my ways
i’m sure this town will never even learn my name)
and it did, and it wasn’t funny
just like we all knew it wasn’t going to be
"someone had better call an ambulance
cause you’ve been lying on the lawn
screaming at the rooftops since daybreak"
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7. |
And Also With You
04:47
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the pastor’s wife baked stones into his bread
the body of christ broke his teeth
witness the gap-toothed parishioners' sneer
as witless testimony
as seen through local light-cutter’s dirty glass
tales told through local bolt-cutter’s dirty breath
the mill will the slice the lumber from the copse of forest
as god mills the soul from the corpse
or so it goes
as seen through nullifying panes
pine case closed
rustled six feet beneath the fallen leaves
the frost and fear and bile
rises in a thin voice from the congregation
“murderer"
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8. |
Beets
05:51
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we are the ones beneath the topsoil
the forefathers of you and yours alike
and o’er the years we push up grass and weeds
so that the fat men on mowers trundle o’er our reaching out
for the ones who laid us down
for the sons who laid us down
for the wives who laid us down
and kept our names and wed again
we lay and wait, we lie and compost
reaching out through our narrow pine bungalows
wait for the day when yous run out of room
and till our bones into this rich heritage soil
and plant your beets, lettuce, and potatoes
between the memories of our earth-infested toes
cause there’s six feet of soil above our ears
and we could grow you gardens that surpass our reaching out
for the ones who laid us down
for the sons who laid us down
for the wives who laid us down
and kept our names and wed again
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Nathan Richards Boularderie Centre, Nova Scotia
Somewhat bipedal animal with nostalgic tendencies and a musical history of very small, very loud rooms.
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