BIG HAIRY CANADIAN POEMS
BACK TO ALBERTA
I could always leave Tokyo, go back to Alberta, buy a big
Hereford ranch, become a landgrabbing cattle baron, discover
barrels of light sweet crude, be a price gouging petroleum
typhoon, maybe something really heavy in natural gas.
Yessir. If I ever get tired of rigged sumo and the Prime Ministers
visiting Yasukuni Shrine, I can return to my old stomping
grounds: get myself a fine old Fear & Loathing style convertible;
roar into Cowtown, wind whistling through my thinning gray
stubble-cut; watch the Bow River flow under the Center Street
Bridge, just to get the sense of watching water flow.
I can buy a big brown Stetson, Western pants, purple cowboy
boots; become paranoid, narrowly right wing.
I will be a real Albertan, a genuine Calgarian; channel myself
below the crazy glue sky spouting creationism; gnaw away
on roast prime ribs of Alberta beef; I can blame Eastern Canadians
for Albertas problems: Newfies, Mackerel Snappers, The Frogs,
Peasoupers, Hottawa, Hogtown, Windypeggers, Saskabush.
Yes, when I get burned out on official corruption, tire of in-house
investigations, can no longer sing My Way in smoky karaoke bars,
I will head back to Gods Country; sit in the Blackfoot Lounge
with my decaying redneck buddies; drink rye and ginger ale;
blaspheme Pakis, Chinamen, Wetbacks, Camel Jockies;
curse feminists, liberals, the twenty first century scheme of things.
Then I can drive back to my ranch, open a phone book, count
the number of Jewish names; watch the weather report, wonder
if the weathermans gay.
When I finally tire of racing cockroaches to the refrigerator, I will
return to the Big Sky Country; wear cowboy boots forever
in the enormous packing houses and fossil fuel refineries; yes,
shitkickers at weddings, funerals, animal testing protests; during
lunch and dinner; while making love, taking a bath, transferring
illicit funds to an off-shore tax haven; while having a lung removed,
my favorite pet spayed or neutered; during authors readings at
Pages On Kensington, throughout artificial insemination workshops.
I can see it all now. No more whrring pachinko balls or drunks
vomiting on late night trains. I will be free.
Free to watch skin blister under the enormous prairie sun.
Free to hear university profs prove the morality of unregulated
markets and disprove global warming.
Free to hear Christian crackpots deny Darwin while spouting
biblical bunk and broadcasting reactionary bilge.
Its gonna be great. Going back to Alberta. Where it really matters.
Reality calling. The soul truly alive.
Bingo, bowling, really klutzy haircuts, infomercials for The Brick.
Back to fur coats and round the clock country music. Ian Tyson
crooning Four Strong Winds. Toby Keith warbling for the Pentagon,
howling against peaceniks.
Calgary: Dallas North. Alberta: Texas On The Half-Shell.
John Wayne culture covering endless prairie vistas, you-all values
thicker than tank cars of spilled pancake syrup.
Alberta. Like living on another planet. The North. Nice but not
immediately appealing. Fort MacMurray. The Tarsands. Vegreville.
The timeless energy of Central Alberta. Red Deer. Three Hills.
The Prairie Bible Institute. Then the all inclusive South. Dewinton.
Medicine Hat. Lethbridge. The Frank Slide.
High places, calling to each other. Calling across boulders, sloughs,
dried up grasslands.
Calling from leaky feed lots, bummed-out reservations, The Silver
Dollar Action Center.
Alberta. Cellphoning across the Pacific.
Smoke-signalling to Tokyo.
Pulling me back to the vast unraveling. Land pulling away from
the sky. Bottom falling out of the riverbank. People losing it for
no obvious reason.
Come.
Come home.
Come Back to Alberta.
Tokyo, Sun. 10/16/05
