Sunday, March 6, 2022

Echoes of an Old Canto

All roads lead to Saskatoon –
                   A warm, clear day,
As the air raid sirens blast at noon
     Like they do on every Friday,
Stirring up the dust of some residual fear
                                   Of the Ruskies
But it hardly rates a note in the drum
     Parrot corps
Rolling the foggy bottom line
                          Lies of war,
Even invoking, in cracker Graham's
      Public murder plot
The Owl Minerva Rule
     To tell dark truths at sunset
When history is safe
                                    To say
– And all the naked shorting
Calls to mind the Lehman weekend
                        Like suicides
                                  In the brain stem
And the Fed façade disappears again
    From rearing its mythic head.

It’s the March Mutually Assured Destruction
                    To the boundaryless:
Is money gold or potash, whole cloth
        Spun into cotton candy?
“The transmutation of metals” --
                       The transmutation of souls.
New systems unfold while the gulls forage
                      In the old-world ways
When lack was poetic, the thoughts of others faint.

The whips of seaweed turn in concentric circles.
Kelp knobs deposited
         could draw a cardinal’s curtains.
Haircuts lie in piles of golden insect wings.

Let the masses have their madness.
No longer any point to filling in their blanks
Though it is so sad to know and to know
                     So few have any clue about
Who tells them what to do
    And why they do it --

         New, more brutal technologies

To tell the same mendacious stories:
For the slaves commit the atrocities
    So royalty doesn't have to.

The world disrobes its facial cloth
    And unfurls the flag on cue
Of an imaginary country
That is everything people believe it to be:
                         Violated in the way
                 They refuse to see
    Occurred to them
And since it is imaginary
There is catharsis in their sympathy 
Which turns inevitably to suffering
As reality is turned more desperately
From the door.
                           But in reality no one cares,
No one really wants to know.
                 They are wise that way
Not to feign,  junk sick with fake news,

      To make out the minor
                                Geopolitico arcana
For the sake of harmony with a neighbor
Petrified and estranged though they may be
    At the drum beat drawing blood
As the hypodermic needle did too, too recently.

They say your money’s frozen.
    They feel you are a threat
         Because you don't obey,
But that’s just the cover story, your opinion
Does not matter; it’s the money,
It’s not yours, it never was …

And what if that is, too, part of the Plan,
However duplicitous, for freedom,
            A thing that is so remote
Everyone would go Mad as March
To think that what they had
                      Was called that.
Such wisdom of the dark has to be
                      Unveiled slowly:
Corn shortages, the price of oil in gold,
    The final letting go of things, 
Where the troubles began.