Still completely immersed in videopoem production, verging on burn out so I’m a little slow on the uptake. I should have posted this 4/20. For the record, I oppose prohibition. Any American-style War On Drugs is a farce. Christ, smoking pot is a tradition in this country. And Stephen Harper is an asshole, on the issue, along with most others. But, hey, we keep voting for him. In any case, I’m happy to report this poem has been selected for Ooligan Press‘s Pacific Poetry Project: An Anthology of Three Cities. (Seattle, Vancouver, Portland.) It’s from my collection, Three Blocks West of Wonderland.
Hookah squats on carpet, Buddha
-esque. Undulating spirals of sapphire
smoke hula up her nose. That buzz.
That buzz that slows your blood,
calls you back to bed like a lover.
Soothes your inner asshole.
B.C. bud. Best bud
in the world. Worth risking jail for.
High-resolution satellite images.
Narcs’ warrant executed Tuesday.
Grow-op raided Wednesday.
Dozens of firearms. Five thousand plants.
Big bust for a small town, says Constable Cook.
For export, for sure.
Cultivation facilities dismantled.
Straight people relieved. Green party over,
but Zoe cried. It was the best job ever!
Dope dealers pay well. Her boyfriend
sold product at school. Their responsibilities
included digging a tunnel under the border,
blaming black fingernails and muddy jeans
on dirt biking at the gravel pit.
Parents were shocked. We thought she
was on Facebook, chatting. We thought he was
on the Internet, with her, boy’s father chiding,
it’s APPLEton, son, not Marijuanaton.