Wednesday, September 07, 2011
The Documenting
A war photographer measures success in scars
to see human things from outside -
his guard against impending sensory attacks,
like men wearing only balaclavas
ripping burkas from dangling corpses
in a theatre of oppression.
From the right he hears dark-robed shaggy faces chant:
“Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!”
And the Nike-swooshed hoodies on the left shout:
“Show your tits! Show your tits!”
In the balcony he cuts himself, sucks the blood,
macros his forearm’s red bubble,
whispers, “God is Great; Capitalism’s workings Mysterious.”
He’s faceless as the men on stage
in snatching the soul of the stoning.
to see human things from outside -
his guard against impending sensory attacks,
like men wearing only balaclavas
ripping burkas from dangling corpses
in a theatre of oppression.
From the right he hears dark-robed shaggy faces chant:
“Wear it! Wear it! Wear it!”
And the Nike-swooshed hoodies on the left shout:
“Show your tits! Show your tits!”
In the balcony he cuts himself, sucks the blood,
macros his forearm’s red bubble,
whispers, “God is Great; Capitalism’s workings Mysterious.”
He’s faceless as the men on stage
in snatching the soul of the stoning.
Labels: 2011, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Hope Seller
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You, your prized stories foretell
of crystalline reborn uprisings
ambiguous revolutions
revolt or repetition
Your doctorate language opaque
as you mount the charismatic healer,
lay us low with scorched-earth smiling
Our leader, you implore
with your brow's Utopian promise
All we're to do is sign
You, your prized stories foretell
of crystalline reborn uprisings
ambiguous revolutions
revolt or repetition
Your doctorate language opaque
as you mount the charismatic healer,
lay us low with scorched-earth smiling
Our leader, you implore
with your brow's Utopian promise
All we're to do is sign
Labels: 2011, Canada, Poetry, politics
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
My Big Day Downtown
I was given $100 by the Downtown Halifax Business Commission to spend on anything I wanted, as long as I documented the experience publicly. I, naturally, chose books. Here's a video (shot by my wife, edited by me, with music by my brother) of the experience:
Labels: 2010, non-fiction, nova scotia, politics
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Bill on a Code of Ethics for the Province
As the honourable member for East Sinsancto power-reads the Cautious Liberal amendments for a bill altering the unethical behaviours of all elected representatives, those officials snicker chat and spitball each other.
The Ever Forward Conservative representative of Nova Bay South next offers his party's amendments as the honourable member from Lower Downtown Pugington whispers sweet something-or-others into the ear of his assistant.
Finally the Chair, who backbenches the Ruling Central Left Leaners, submits his own written amendments and winks his deferral to the morning's 1st coffee. Relieved laughter ricochets as the sun threatens the west-facing windows.
The Ever Forward Conservative representative of Nova Bay South next offers his party's amendments as the honourable member from Lower Downtown Pugington whispers sweet something-or-others into the ear of his assistant.
Finally the Chair, who backbenches the Ruling Central Left Leaners, submits his own written amendments and winks his deferral to the morning's 1st coffee. Relieved laughter ricochets as the sun threatens the west-facing windows.
Labels: 2010, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Friday, January 30, 2009
Terrible Twos
"In the United States the average home has grown from 983 square feet in 1950 to 2,434 square feet in 2005. It's a trend seen across the Western world...I think it is more than coincidence that over that same period, North American scores on an international survey of happiness have dropped and the amount of time we spend with our children has decreased."
--Michael Ungar, Ph.D.
--Michael Ungar, Ph.D.
Terrible Twos
Beaver has a case of the Terrible Twos.
"Mine," he says, jamming his toy explorers,
two-footed into the arctic snow.
Beaver’s scientists are on a mission:
to solve the ownership issue,
prove the north pole is
tectonically connected to his home
on native land, as the old song goes.
"When all this melts I’ll own
whatever’s left of it!" Beaver proclaims.
"My peer-reviewed journals will prove it."
All well and good,
until Bear comes out to play.
Bear’s in that same phase,
also staking claims,
learning his power,
unaware of repercussions
or limits.
But he’s so much bigger.
Adults expect more from Bear.
"Mine," Bear says, jamming flag-poles,
single-speared into everything,
even underwater.
Bear’s toy soldiers are on a mission:
to get there first, like Sputnik,
to defend what so obviously
belongs to him,
like the old Soviet republics.
"When all this melts I’ll own
whatever’s left of it!" Bear proclaims.
"All my flags will prove it."
Beaver has a case of the Terrible Twos.
"Mine," he says, jamming his toy explorers,
two-footed into the arctic snow.
Beaver’s scientists are on a mission:
to solve the ownership issue,
prove the north pole is
tectonically connected to his home
on native land, as the old song goes.
"When all this melts I’ll own
whatever’s left of it!" Beaver proclaims.
"My peer-reviewed journals will prove it."
All well and good,
until Bear comes out to play.
Bear’s in that same phase,
also staking claims,
learning his power,
unaware of repercussions
or limits.
But he’s so much bigger.
Adults expect more from Bear.
"Mine," Bear says, jamming flag-poles,
single-speared into everything,
even underwater.
Bear’s toy soldiers are on a mission:
to get there first, like Sputnik,
to defend what so obviously
belongs to him,
like the old Soviet republics.
"When all this melts I’ll own
whatever’s left of it!" Bear proclaims.
"All my flags will prove it."
Labels: 2009, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Friday, December 05, 2008
Stuck in a Mall
"Environmentalists have gotten their politics backward. For too long they have demanded that Americans Wake Up! rather than encouraging them to dream." --Nordhaus & Shellenberger
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Stuck in a mall.
Instrumental Christmas carols
looping ear to ear.
Dazzling white light displays
flashing eye to eye.
Fat broiler boiling over
wafting nostril to nostril.
Snow proof warehouse boots dragging,
eyelids blinking slow
at the product kaleidoscope.
There is a list in my pocket
next to the plastic,
and a clock ticking to 5.
If it gets there
before the list is ticked
my in-laws won’t love me.
No time for my nagging questions,
wondering what it’s all for,
where it was all made,
where it goes when novelty fades
like a catalogue model’s allure.
She and the swag lost
their battle with time.
I can’t suffer that fate.
My wife would kill me
if I succumbed to wax philosophies
and missed my plastic deadline.
Instrumental Christmas carols
looping ear to ear.
Dazzling white light displays
flashing eye to eye.
Fat broiler boiling over
wafting nostril to nostril.
Snow proof warehouse boots dragging,
eyelids blinking slow
at the product kaleidoscope.
There is a list in my pocket
next to the plastic,
and a clock ticking to 5.
If it gets there
before the list is ticked
my in-laws won’t love me.
No time for my nagging questions,
wondering what it’s all for,
where it was all made,
where it goes when novelty fades
like a catalogue model’s allure.
She and the swag lost
their battle with time.
I can’t suffer that fate.
My wife would kill me
if I succumbed to wax philosophies
and missed my plastic deadline.
Labels: 2008, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Thursday, November 27, 2008
For Cheb Khaled
"White folks seemed always to expect you to know those things which they'd done everything they could think of to prevent you from knowing." --Ralph Ellison
For Cheb Khaleb
I've lost my teenager,
his bouncing strut disappeared.
I weigh 375 now.
My 39-year-old maid died
while sound-proofing my bedroom.
The priest next door inflicts on me
the cries of his wives as he beats them
until I drop to my knees begging
for new ideas.
Then I weep until sleep claims me.
I'm trapped in this inherited mansion.
I've lost my carefree teenaged dancer.
Too much Cuban ex drove him
from me to nowhere.
I replaced him with titanium gates.
I built a super-computer to track
the slow death of my self-made father,
self-made with help from my mother.
My teenager won't answer my calls;
skin cancer ate my father's face
while doctors swore things were fine.
My titanium gates have since rusted,
but I still can't see through them
and my teenager took my maps.
For Cheb Khaleb
I've lost my teenager,
his bouncing strut disappeared.
I weigh 375 now.
My 39-year-old maid died
while sound-proofing my bedroom.
The priest next door inflicts on me
the cries of his wives as he beats them
until I drop to my knees begging
for new ideas.
Then I weep until sleep claims me.
I'm trapped in this inherited mansion.
I've lost my carefree teenaged dancer.
Too much Cuban ex drove him
from me to nowhere.
I replaced him with titanium gates.
I built a super-computer to track
the slow death of my self-made father,
self-made with help from my mother.
My teenager won't answer my calls;
skin cancer ate my father's face
while doctors swore things were fine.
My titanium gates have since rusted,
but I still can't see through them
and my teenager took my maps.
Labels: 2008, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Apology
"I ain't a communist necessarily, but I have been in the red all my life."
--Woody Guthrie
I’m sorry.
On behalf of the world
I apologize.
I don’t blame the sweat-soaked man
who pulled the black market trigger.
His scar was constant danger,
bloated by a leaden bulge
and an itch
to be the man society demands,
a drive-by saviour.
I don't blame you.
You wanted a mother to shield you
from the ones who have it all
and the others like you
who have nothing,
your competition
for the trickle-down leftovers.
I don’t blame your mother,
who escaped on her own,
left you alone.
It's hard to blame a Third-World woman.
Blame is a masculine fist,
another uninvited seed.
What choice did your mother have?
No more than you.
Where can I, a faraway foreigner
place my scuffed steel-toes?
Whose ass do I kick here?
Where shall I stand for you
with all this money?
It’s available now;
you are already fallen.
I’m sorry
on behalf of my world.
We feared your lyrical science,
stole your books and bricks,
gave you machetes and guns and glue,
and a place in the ground.
The only shield left for you
is the mother of us all.
ps. I made the news! This time not as a journalist but as a subject, in the Books section, for my contest win. Click here to read it.
--Woody Guthrie
I’m sorry.
On behalf of the world
I apologize.
I don’t blame the sweat-soaked man
who pulled the black market trigger.
His scar was constant danger,
bloated by a leaden bulge
and an itch
to be the man society demands,
a drive-by saviour.
I don't blame you.
You wanted a mother to shield you
from the ones who have it all
and the others like you
who have nothing,
your competition
for the trickle-down leftovers.
I don’t blame your mother,
who escaped on her own,
left you alone.
It's hard to blame a Third-World woman.
Blame is a masculine fist,
another uninvited seed.
What choice did your mother have?
No more than you.
Where can I, a faraway foreigner
place my scuffed steel-toes?
Whose ass do I kick here?
Where shall I stand for you
with all this money?
It’s available now;
you are already fallen.
I’m sorry
on behalf of my world.
We feared your lyrical science,
stole your books and bricks,
gave you machetes and guns and glue,
and a place in the ground.
The only shield left for you
is the mother of us all.
ps. I made the news! This time not as a journalist but as a subject, in the Books section, for my contest win. Click here to read it.
Labels: 2005, Canada, Poetry, politics
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
At The Old Salvation
It's amateur hour at the Old Salvation
We're upchucking our distillations
There's a lady crying in consternation
We're all dying of anticipation
waiting on a better day
We're all agreed on this world of bleeders
it's not what we wanted and we feel cheated
but we're over-run by false-hearted leaders
control-freaks and bottom-feeders
while we search for better ways
Dancing is our only relief from living
We soothe our guilt with token-giving
drown our tears with libation tipping
shred our souls with fake-sex stripping
waiting for the final play
Happy hour comes at half past middle
Good and evil duel it out on the fiddle
Jello shooters kill us a little
As we wipe away each other's spittle
we drink to the loss of pain
When morning arrives 48 hours later
we're devoid of love and lost our haters
Some surrender to instinct and be-come maters
a new generation emerges much later
and soon it too will pray
Pray for the loss of pain
Pray for the final play
Pray for better ways
Pray for a better day
We're upchucking our distillations
There's a lady crying in consternation
We're all dying of anticipation
waiting on a better day
We're all agreed on this world of bleeders
it's not what we wanted and we feel cheated
but we're over-run by false-hearted leaders
control-freaks and bottom-feeders
while we search for better ways
Dancing is our only relief from living
We soothe our guilt with token-giving
drown our tears with libation tipping
shred our souls with fake-sex stripping
waiting for the final play
Happy hour comes at half past middle
Good and evil duel it out on the fiddle
Jello shooters kill us a little
As we wipe away each other's spittle
we drink to the loss of pain
When morning arrives 48 hours later
we're devoid of love and lost our haters
Some surrender to instinct and be-come maters
a new generation emerges much later
and soon it too will pray
Pray for the loss of pain
Pray for the final play
Pray for better ways
Pray for a better day
Labels: 2007, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Drawing Lines
He took a pen and he drew a line
above one number, under another
He said 'ten years from this time
not a soul will fall asunder'
That was twenty years ago
Now four children play on swings
A fifth has no where to go
and no energy to bring
Welcome to the bottom of the poverty line
Watch those bombs fall on TV
Each could pay rent 3,000 times
They make apathy look easy
It's lonely at the top too
Welcome to the working poor
You won't suffer too little to do
12-hour shift to finish your chores
Café latte at table eight
Smile pretty for the ladies in prime
Work for welfare don't be late
Strangers watch your kids all the time
Welcome to the top of the poverty line
Not poor enough for subsidies
Dropped bomb pays rent just 2,000 times
Their apathy is still a breeze
above one number, under another
He said 'ten years from this time
not a soul will fall asunder'
That was twenty years ago
Now four children play on swings
A fifth has no where to go
and no energy to bring
Welcome to the bottom of the poverty line
Watch those bombs fall on TV
Each could pay rent 3,000 times
They make apathy look easy
It's lonely at the top too
Welcome to the working poor
You won't suffer too little to do
12-hour shift to finish your chores
Café latte at table eight
Smile pretty for the ladies in prime
Work for welfare don't be late
Strangers watch your kids all the time
Welcome to the top of the poverty line
Not poor enough for subsidies
Dropped bomb pays rent just 2,000 times
Their apathy is still a breeze
Labels: 2003, Poetry, politics, Toronto
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Redemption Guru
When my wife started stalking the CEO of Vitro Inc., begging him to save our Baby Dream with his hand-of-god technologies, I had an aneurysm. There was white blinding snow atop a mystic ancient ice cap. I was pawing the surface in search of new-age tranquility.
And still I couldn’t stop her.
And still I couldn’t stop her.
My desire for 10-toed pink perfection, my need to pass on my DNA, was as strong as hers. For the thousandth time since the start of our synchronized naked insemination schemes I chastised my brain, told it to think positive thoughts.
“Make sure you tell him about the abortion,” I reminded my wife.
She waved a backhand at me. I should know better than to bring that up, it said.
If only we’d birthed the Down’s foetus into a baby, my brain countered.
But of course she was right. The first pregnancy was easy. We couldn’t have known we were in for a famine of infertility.
Now, just as foretold by my aneurysm, here we are, mitten in mitten, feeling our way up the final peak to our last hope.
If this Redemption Guru is the quack I can’t stop thinking he is, we’ll summersault to our childish deaths, joining our Sherpa guide, who took his own life a trimester ago.
“Look,” shouts my wife. “There he is!”
I’m snow-blinded. Gently sobbing, she guides my hand over his folded, up-slanting eyelids, over his protruding tongue and shortened arms, which hold a guitar. I can feel in our Guru's face the features of down’s syndrome.
He sings ‘Come Back, Baby,’ by the Ramones.
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Labels: 2007, Fiction, nova scotia, politics
Thursday, June 19, 2008
If I had $10 Million - An Inflation Story
For 10 million I could buy a mile of the new twinned highway and still have enough left to get me one of those smart bombs, just a little one, just big enough to blow up my strip of twinned highway. I'd have to squirrel away enough to buy a wide angled camcorder and film the explosion from a rented helicopter. And there'd have to be road blocks to make sure there was no traffic - I couldn't afford the lawsuits.
Or maybe I'd buy me one a those new private sector prisons, double my fortune selling recycled uranium-powered tasers to convicted panhandlers so they can take their antisocial disorders out on sadistic guards peddling refried baked bean sandwiches. I could have a nice little factory farm in the yard - the inmates could provide free labour while I watch the US Open. I could give free sausages to whichever con raised the best sow.
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Labels: 2008, non-fiction, nova scotia, politics
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Lincolnville
"In 1993, approximately 614,000 American children were physically abused, 300,000 were sexually abused, 532,000 were emotionally abused, 507,000 were physically neglected, and 585,000 were emotionally neglected. 565,000 of these children were killed or seriously injured. What is the relationship between these numbers and our culturally induced isolation from the natural world and each other, from the social embeddedness in which we evolved?” --Derrick Jensen
I'm hypnotized by the sunspots
flashing across the snow
it's a warning
this isn't a nature poem
I'm confused by the refuse
driving across the province
it's a murder
it isn't a straight line
I'm angered by the decisions
directed at black Nova Scotians
it's the corruption
this isn't a protest song
I'm overwhelmed by their power
dazzling smoke and mirrors
it's their warning
they aren't above circles
I'm humbled by the morning
marching down the highway
it's this community
that celebrates our survival
Labels: 2008, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Burning Bush
“Only one species on earth does not have full employment and that is homo sapiens.”
--Paul Hawken
--Paul Hawken
Burning Bush
I can't believe
the directness of your lies
The sheer quantity
of your false strands
somehow you never got stuck
inside your own web
Death and Destruction
Those are your powers
How well you trap your prey
for their poison
A demented Predator
unaware of any limits
on its own appetite
Playing games
way over the ocean
trillions die in the suction.
the directness of your lies
The sheer quantity
of your false strands
somehow you never got stuck
inside your own web
Death and Destruction
Those are your powers
How well you trap your prey
for their poison
A demented Predator
unaware of any limits
on its own appetite
Playing games
way over the ocean
trillions die in the suction.
Labels: 2004, Poetry, politics, Toronto
Friday, November 09, 2007
Majora Carter
A friend just forwarded this to me and I found it so inspiring I thought I'd share it:
In an emotionally charged talk, Majora Carter explains her fight for environmental justice in the South Bronx. This MacArthur-winning activist shows how minority neighborhoods have suffered most from flawed urban policy, and energetically shares her grassroots efforts to "green the ghetto." Click http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/53.
In an emotionally charged talk, Majora Carter explains her fight for environmental justice in the South Bronx. This MacArthur-winning activist shows how minority neighborhoods have suffered most from flawed urban policy, and energetically shares her grassroots efforts to "green the ghetto." Click http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/view/id/53.
Labels: philosophy, politics
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
latest publication
HeyHey Sports Fans,
It took a couple months, but I finally have my first Hali publication, in The Chronicle Herald, the more serious of the two dailies here:
Neighbourhood versus HRM
Check it out!
-The Bopper
It took a couple months, but I finally have my first Hali publication, in The Chronicle Herald, the more serious of the two dailies here:
Neighbourhood versus HRM
Check it out!
-The Bopper
Labels: non-fiction, politics, publishing
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Change Your Mind
If you could change your mind
you could change the way you live
You say I make a difference
but the pay is shit
If only I could show you
the way I live
you might change your mind
and change the way you live
You squashed a spider
smiled and apologized
for inflicting such cruelty
on my environmentalist eyes
'It's ok to make your space,' I said
'it's the 200 species we wiped out today,
those losses are what really hurt'
You shrug as if these 200 species aren't you
If you could change your mind
there'd be some kinda reason to hope
If you could dream other ways to live
If you could see the beautiful imperfection
of we human things and our potential
to end cynicism about our own nature
If you could let go of that excuse and innovate
With your talent paradise might welcome us home
If we could change our minds
we could leave this destructive way behind
We could change the way we live
We could give back to the gods
what is rightfully theirs
We could forge a new path
following the curve of the earth
If you could change your mind
you could change the way you live
You say I make a difference
but the pay is shit
If only I could show you
the way I live
you might change your mind
and change the way you live
You squashed a spider
smiled and apologized
for inflicting such cruelty
on my environmentalist eyes
'It's ok to make your space,' I said
'it's the 200 species we wiped out today,
those losses are what really hurt'
You shrug as if these 200 species aren't you
If you could change your mind
there'd be some kinda reason to hope
If you could dream other ways to live
If you could see the beautiful imperfection
of we human things and our potential
to end cynicism about our own nature
If you could let go of that excuse and innovate
With your talent paradise might welcome us home
If we could change our minds
we could leave this destructive way behind
We could change the way we live
We could give back to the gods
what is rightfully theirs
We could forge a new path
following the curve of the earth
If you could change your mind
Labels: 2007, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Oppression
I am a rare and dying breed
I am the oppressor with a conscience
colonial man erected and fully realized
educated at your expense
fully aware of all I've done to you
Let me stand under your gavel and be judged
Let me make my confession on your turf
but because I'm so isolated
honesty is all I can really offer
my meek apology represents only myself
Perhaps you thought I was of the majority
but only the global majority understands me
my fellow oppressors only shake their baffled heads
like I'm some medicine man selling snake oil cures
to afflictions they don't know they have
My words bounce from their chain-mail
like rootless green plants with no market
they don't accept me as one of their own
anymore than you my victims do
this is the price I pay for consciousness
"It's the price you pay for privilege
for stolen lands waters and graves"
I'm told by acestors and murdered ghosts
but had I never surrendered my profits
I'd still be living comfortably now
I'd be surrounded by my fellow oppressors
drinking blood and eating flesh
until heavy sleep lands on us
There'd be no time to hear our victims
we'd be too busy re-writing the laws
but my foolish conscience caught me
and now this once proud virus
must beg for mercy like a common thief
in the vain hope you'll recruit me
to be a mole in the upper echelons
I'l accept whatever fate you offer
It seems I have little choice
but before you pass your judgement
know I am a rare and dying breed
I am the oppressor and the oppressed
I am the oppressor with a conscience
colonial man erected and fully realized
educated at your expense
fully aware of all I've done to you
Let me stand under your gavel and be judged
Let me make my confession on your turf
but because I'm so isolated
honesty is all I can really offer
my meek apology represents only myself
Perhaps you thought I was of the majority
but only the global majority understands me
my fellow oppressors only shake their baffled heads
like I'm some medicine man selling snake oil cures
to afflictions they don't know they have
My words bounce from their chain-mail
like rootless green plants with no market
they don't accept me as one of their own
anymore than you my victims do
this is the price I pay for consciousness
"It's the price you pay for privilege
for stolen lands waters and graves"
I'm told by acestors and murdered ghosts
but had I never surrendered my profits
I'd still be living comfortably now
I'd be surrounded by my fellow oppressors
drinking blood and eating flesh
until heavy sleep lands on us
There'd be no time to hear our victims
we'd be too busy re-writing the laws
but my foolish conscience caught me
and now this once proud virus
must beg for mercy like a common thief
in the vain hope you'll recruit me
to be a mole in the upper echelons
I'l accept whatever fate you offer
It seems I have little choice
but before you pass your judgement
know I am a rare and dying breed
I am the oppressor and the oppressed
Labels: 2007, nova scotia, Poetry, politics
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Paper Cuts
Hi folks,
I'm off to Trana for a wedding; be back in a week or two, depending on various unknown factors. I leave you with a little political poem:
Paper Cuts
Let me wrap myself in this
warm blanket of cynicism
and curse you for these cuts
that you say aren't really cuts
when you consider the bottom line
After you slash the creative veins
of the arts
after you slice the walls
of small enterprise
after you jab at the women
struggling for equality
after you lop off the end
of this joint
the one that kept my eyes clear
and the pain of disease at bay
You know the disease I'm talking about
It's the disease of your corporate tax cuts
for the greatest polluters
and changers of climate
for the ones who sold Killex to my neighbour after
manufacturing his obsession with uniform grass
It's a more manageable kind of grass
if you kill everything in its path
including my poor nervous system
What benefits we could have had
from the other more chaotic grass
we'll never know because you
cut that research too
and the kind that could have got me
real justice like
the original inhabitants once knew
I curse you for your cynical fiscal butchery
and shake under my blanket
of cold hard rage
I'm off to Trana for a wedding; be back in a week or two, depending on various unknown factors. I leave you with a little political poem:
Paper Cuts
Let me wrap myself in this
warm blanket of cynicism
and curse you for these cuts
that you say aren't really cuts
when you consider the bottom line
After you slash the creative veins
of the arts
after you slice the walls
of small enterprise
after you jab at the women
struggling for equality
after you lop off the end
of this joint
the one that kept my eyes clear
and the pain of disease at bay
You know the disease I'm talking about
It's the disease of your corporate tax cuts
for the greatest polluters
and changers of climate
for the ones who sold Killex to my neighbour after
manufacturing his obsession with uniform grass
It's a more manageable kind of grass
if you kill everything in its path
including my poor nervous system
What benefits we could have had
from the other more chaotic grass
we'll never know because you
cut that research too
and the kind that could have got me
real justice like
the original inhabitants once knew
I curse you for your cynical fiscal butchery
and shake under my blanket
of cold hard rage
Friday, September 21, 2007
Of Dogs and Hens
True to my word, I expand on some comments I made at Lynn's about pitbulls and chickens, which recently made the news in Nova Scotia:
Of Dogs and Hens
Last week in rural Nova Scotia a couple of dogs broke into a barn and killed about 40 chickens. The most remarkable thing about the incident is that it made the news, as if dogs killing chickens is unusual.
The story made the press because the dogs in question happen to be pit bulls, a nebulous category of dogs that includes several breeds and cross-breeds. Now that this chicken-killing incident has been debated ad nauseum over ink-stained pages, talk of legislation banning pit bulls, similar to that enacted in Ontario, has surfaced.
Some dog advocates have rightly pointed out that banning a breed of dog runs counter to attempts to restrict the bad behaviour of owners, which is the real cause of canine violence. A spokesman for the Canadian Kennel Club has said that “it’s not an individual breed that’s responsible for what they’re trying to curtail, it’s usually an owner or an environment.”
Some have also noted that pit bulls are not technically a breed anyway, so any attempt to ban them outright would be fraught with technical difficulties.
These are all reasonable points, but they miss the bigger picture of a fact so plain, so overwhelmingly obvious and natural, that nobody has noticed it lurking behind the flying chicken feathers. That fact is this: dogs are carnivorous predators.
Dogs kill things. Things smaller than themselves, like chickens. And by dogs, I mean all dogs, from the smallest shiatsu to the largest mastiff. The latter are just more likely to be successful, equipped as they are with a hundred-plus poundage and jaws of steel.
I mean no disrespect to those chickens; they have as much of a right to life as the next livestock, but the doggie advocate who claimed that “both the chickens and the dogs are victims” is missing the point. Had the dogs not reached the chickens first, dog’s best friend would have done the job for them. For we humans, too, are carnivorous predators, in our own special way.
And had a human done those chickens in, as happens every day in every rural town across this province, you wouldn’t have seen any heavily armed cops seeking retribution at the local abattoir, “for public safety.”
I have to confess here that I myself am a dog-lover. But when you think about it the human effort to domesticate animals as wild and dangerous as canines is one of our more hair-brained schemes, and that’s saying something.
Still, through careful breeding and the provision of a loving environment, any dog of any breed can become the most loyal, gentle friend. But that doesn’t mean that the dog loses its natural hunting instinct.
And, the bigger and stronger the dog, the bigger its prey will be. So, a couple of dogs of the pit bull variety can, if left to wander, break into a barn and slaughter 40 chickens. And, sorry fellow dog-lovers, they can also turn on a small unattended child at any time.
So, our experiment to totally control dogs has thus far failed. What should we do next? Ban the breeds that seem to most often breach our unwritten agreement that they eat only the packaged and prepared portions of livestock we provide for them? Even though there are thousands of other bigger and stronger dogs that unscrupulous and lazy owners could turn into public hazards once pit bulls were banned?
Or, should we focus more on human behaviour, more specifically dog-owner behaviour, something we may actually have some hope of controlling?
In this case, the dogs went after a small prey that some human being would likely have killed anyway. It boils down to an economic loss for a farmer. The owners of the dogs should be required to compensate that loss; that is a punishment that fits the crime.
Unfortunately, the dogs have already paid an unnatural price for their most natural instincts.
Of Dogs and Hens
Last week in rural Nova Scotia a couple of dogs broke into a barn and killed about 40 chickens. The most remarkable thing about the incident is that it made the news, as if dogs killing chickens is unusual.
The story made the press because the dogs in question happen to be pit bulls, a nebulous category of dogs that includes several breeds and cross-breeds. Now that this chicken-killing incident has been debated ad nauseum over ink-stained pages, talk of legislation banning pit bulls, similar to that enacted in Ontario, has surfaced.
Some dog advocates have rightly pointed out that banning a breed of dog runs counter to attempts to restrict the bad behaviour of owners, which is the real cause of canine violence. A spokesman for the Canadian Kennel Club has said that “it’s not an individual breed that’s responsible for what they’re trying to curtail, it’s usually an owner or an environment.”
Some have also noted that pit bulls are not technically a breed anyway, so any attempt to ban them outright would be fraught with technical difficulties.
These are all reasonable points, but they miss the bigger picture of a fact so plain, so overwhelmingly obvious and natural, that nobody has noticed it lurking behind the flying chicken feathers. That fact is this: dogs are carnivorous predators.
Dogs kill things. Things smaller than themselves, like chickens. And by dogs, I mean all dogs, from the smallest shiatsu to the largest mastiff. The latter are just more likely to be successful, equipped as they are with a hundred-plus poundage and jaws of steel.
I mean no disrespect to those chickens; they have as much of a right to life as the next livestock, but the doggie advocate who claimed that “both the chickens and the dogs are victims” is missing the point. Had the dogs not reached the chickens first, dog’s best friend would have done the job for them. For we humans, too, are carnivorous predators, in our own special way.
And had a human done those chickens in, as happens every day in every rural town across this province, you wouldn’t have seen any heavily armed cops seeking retribution at the local abattoir, “for public safety.”
I have to confess here that I myself am a dog-lover. But when you think about it the human effort to domesticate animals as wild and dangerous as canines is one of our more hair-brained schemes, and that’s saying something.
Still, through careful breeding and the provision of a loving environment, any dog of any breed can become the most loyal, gentle friend. But that doesn’t mean that the dog loses its natural hunting instinct.
And, the bigger and stronger the dog, the bigger its prey will be. So, a couple of dogs of the pit bull variety can, if left to wander, break into a barn and slaughter 40 chickens. And, sorry fellow dog-lovers, they can also turn on a small unattended child at any time.
So, our experiment to totally control dogs has thus far failed. What should we do next? Ban the breeds that seem to most often breach our unwritten agreement that they eat only the packaged and prepared portions of livestock we provide for them? Even though there are thousands of other bigger and stronger dogs that unscrupulous and lazy owners could turn into public hazards once pit bulls were banned?
Or, should we focus more on human behaviour, more specifically dog-owner behaviour, something we may actually have some hope of controlling?
In this case, the dogs went after a small prey that some human being would likely have killed anyway. It boils down to an economic loss for a farmer. The owners of the dogs should be required to compensate that loss; that is a punishment that fits the crime.
Unfortunately, the dogs have already paid an unnatural price for their most natural instincts.
Labels: 2007, non-fiction, nova scotia, politics
