Been so busy I’ve been neglecting my site/blog; find nearly a hundred spam messages upon returning. Apparently I can learn how to trim my dog’s nails, make a fortune with passive income/cryptocurrency, acquire free advertising on Google, buy a super backpack or team up with a group of highly qualified ethical hackers for a small fee of $1500. Thanks but this poet has no time for anything other than toiling away in a vacuum, struggling to be relevant. Enclosed please find a work-in-progress.
Speaking of damage, my heart goes out to fellow British Columbians devastated by recent flooding and landslides. All those towns are significant, having had the opportunity to travel most of this incredible province. And fuck you, climate change deniers.
CONSTELLATION OF DAMAGE
To be delineated at a later date
HOME
My poor little infant head
wedged between bed and dresser,
wailing unheard above the thunder
by parents beneath the clothesline.
Perpetual white bolt, mark of Thor
between my brows,
the price of fresh flannel sheets.
Routinely bashed, walloped.
Luminous prairie day,
blindly chasing a baby Lab
until slamming into a thicket
of wooden oil drum stand,
eight-year-old brains
nearly knocked clear out of my skull,
enough sense retained to instruct
the hysteric through bloody irises.
“Mom, call Jerry. Mom, call Jerry
next door. He can take me to the doctor.”
Scrub. Me. The game.
Left knee gashed while sliding
into second base,
concealed broken pop bottle
on a baseball diamond
roughly hewn from fields of grass.
No pain but I glanced down,
leg scarlet, cried realizing the terrifying injury
and snuck into the house to apply first aid.
SCHOOL
Braids yanked,
knuckles rapped via metal edged ruler.
Ambushed on the playground,
stabbed in the arm with an HB pencil,
hard head bonked with a soft ball,
pelted with rocks, conked,
welted with spiky horse chestnuts.
Near fatal car accident No 1.
Flinty rain slicked Fraser Valley road,
newly licenced boyfriend lost to the wheel,
Plymouth Duster grill colliding
with lone elm within an infinite pasture,
six bodies thrown and sundry broken bones.
YOUNG ADULT
The Slits at Temple Beautiful, San Francisco.
Eschewing a lengthy Ladies Room queue
to pee behind a bush
in the Roman Catholic church yard next door.
Poised atop a towering wrought iron fence,
certain I was quicksilver,
leapt off into into the dusk,
right knee suddenly meeting blunt concrete.
So clever. Damn thing still goes out on me.
Burgled. Pursued by armed robber.
Gang bangers.
Spurned; lovers, impotent A&R guys.
Destitute. Chased down a fluttering Lincoln
faced 5-dollar bill. Got to eat that day.
Best hot dog ever.
Six-year marriage, strung out on cocaine.
Routinely throttled, slapped.
Cracked ribs. Riots.
Escape north. Homeland.
MIDDLE AGE
Near fatal car accident No 2.
Harrowing close call,
buzzed by a spring-fevered motorcyclist.
Deeply upside down in a trench on the S-curve.
Precious son and I survived
his scratches, my separated shoulder.
To be continued, fates willing.