Ball too small to see, by Ken Belford

- for Si

The same ideas seem more likely now
as we move toward completion at the end
of our cycle, when time speeds up and
boundaries dissolve. An occluded line
grazer, an all-at-once animal beyond
syntax in the liminal slime, I’m drawn
toward you through time, to all the last things,
and all the lost things. Why all this talk?
The phone rings in the middle of the night
but I don’t answer. No-one’s ever there.
An updated node and ball too small to see,
when I rearrange my room, interference
patterns and three-dimensional images
reflect living forms. Telephone used to
be a noun made by combining forms
but it’s a verb now. You are not here,
and you are nowhere, and I wonder
if that coherent beam outside my door
is you, casting your shadow in.

Poem Shops for an Image

Anything really, a visual
cue to go along with the abstract
status of being arty, or vaguely
original. Poem casts about,
almost frantic, for his image.

He tries make-up, you know,
mascara and blush, but
it seems redundant and his white
skin reacts in odd allergic ways.

It doesn’t seem appropriate to go on . . .

He tries acting school, a good one, and
shows promise; his vocal range is
wide and he is able to slip
in and out of character at will. His timing
is impeccable. But his stage presence
sucks and soon the director has him doing
voice-overs for animated films instead.
Poem talks to mirrors, trying to project,
to evoke, to smash through that
blank vacant stare . . .

Poem flails.

An animal, he thinks, I could
be an animal, a bold creature,
majestic, loaded with national
fervour, a history of violence . . .

Poem is not himself.

A musician who radiates light and
transcends the stage, climbing the scale
higher and higher until he blinks out,
a flash of recognition spilling down
onto the upturned faces.

Limits. Poem is what is not-Poem.

He gathers himself, sets off
out the door. The ordinary day
follows him.

Not a Fighter

Poem’s Industry & Progress

A review board convenes, votes
to lift the restrictions

lines on a map appear

for the prime investor, it is a coupe, capital
flows into the machines

reading extracts the resources,
truck loads, driving unsafely on questionable roads,
filled with significance, leave
for the container ports, and markets
overseas send a cheque

but jobs are created, review
publications, chapters propped
up thriving on Poem’s product,
that shining bin, that exasperating cargo

economic forecasters watch him,
his subsidiary paper product tax shelter,
and then, the vein is near
exhausted, the reserves spent,
the harvest dwindles and
Poem is left vacant

the road is abandoned,
saplings grow through the windows,
a wealth of rodents move in

Poem pleads, ‘Wait, wait
I can do other things—
look, this waste can become
something else useful or
I can be a call centre or, or
I can, I can sing!

but he is alone, a ghost
town echo

only the knowledge
that his wares, bobbles and
cheap lining material have traveled
the globe, filling drawers
and lost and found boxes

Poem rests, coos at the rafter
pigeons—it’s okay, everything is okay

New Narrative (or, why things don’t happen)

When
there is always
an elsewhere, an otherwise
to the placed moment, the event—when

Poem sits in a restaurant
named Papa George’s (Winnipeg
or Jasper?) as three vacationers
pose for a fourth who
takes a picture but looks
like she thinks the photo
will not turn out or when

events recede into the larger
integration which, when named
become an event—when

the picture is taken, it
is not one but four emotions
which are taken (but where?)
by Poem—who

recedes, in time

Poem the Fish

Poem creates the escape
hatchery of ideas—a frayed
patience, a silver sliver dithering,
a small fry leap over
the enclosure bank, a moment mid-
air, fin wings—

but if Poem were farmed, he wouldn’t
be Poem.

By the shoreline, cool and swift
the current’s curve of neural swirl,
that’s where Poem rests.

The imposition of story forms, by Ken Belford

I have been erased in the stories
that are now told of the Blackwater.
Everybody talks about stories
but nobody remembers them long.

I have a little black bag I wear on my back.
I was an outlaw and my story was killed
without sacrifice. More human than divine,
I am not a man and I live between the forest
and the city. I think the way animals think.

There is the subject and the subjected and
everything happens as if. The cities
at the headwaters of the nass were dissolved
by cutting through the subject but I made places
for rest and found something to eat.

The camp was originally a line cabin
from which one could see both ways –
to the Skeena and the Nass, Blackwater to the front,
the forest on three sides. When I first saw it,
there were no trails and the value was zero.
It’s still unroaded but it won’t be long before it isn’t.

Poem in the Postmodern Age

part here, part there, past
his prime but plugged in,
Poem tries hard to do the right thing

the paradigms of mid-day
traffic just look bad
but remain in motion; Poem sighs, edges out
on his refurbished bicycle using
proper hand signals and a dash
of theatre

Poem is off to the printers and he
is an informed shopper,
rubs the linen texture between his fingers,
and looks for post-consumer
recycled paper whenever he can

the Age thinks it’s in transition but
Poem knows there is no such thing

if the moment exists,
an object is hurled out of a club-cab
and the object “certainty” is not in flux

it hits him in the forehead, beneath his
properly adjusted helmet, and Poem
falls beneath the wheel of what

when his eyes open Poem looks up at
a kind pizza guy
cradling his head in his lap;
there is something familiar there but
publishers are a restless lot and
Poem must hurry out of consciousness

he winks to the bystanders and takes
one final breath, there