Sonnet L’Abbé • September 30, 2011 • Vancouver, BC

Harper I
Harper I
Harper I
can’t work
for you

I’m too high
on green
I’ve been
thinking

about the
li
li
li
line

I’ve been
thinking
about all yer’
line

that one
yer thinkin
a puttin
cross the border

Harper
it makes me
smoke

it does
it makes me
smoke
a pack

to think
of you

your say-so

and all the shit
you send me

this is where
my mojo
goes

when I think
of the colour
picture

you sent

of your victory
wait
I’ll go grab it

ok
here is the
communi
ca
nada

you is put
in my shit

oh wait
there are
letters
in here
the full
colour
pictures
made me
want
to lie
down

ok
the first
is a 17×24
full colour
print

MAJORITY

I had to search
for your
font

this one doesn’t
quite match

HERE FOR CANADA

those are my
takes away?

no, it’s yer mug
that smug
press-lip

it’s yer wife
her lips
all
press

the boy
the girl
what are
their names?

i should know
them like
i know
malia and sasha

like michelle
mishelle
she should
spell it
like that

but i digress

your wife
those tears
she shed
when they declared it

i was reminded
of my politician
ex

i heard
it’s an open
secret
that she
is with women?

i don’t know
dating a politician
there were perks
to keeping
lips press

and lips happy
somewhere
else

anyway

i’m explaining
why i don’t
work harder

it’s because
i work for you
whether i like it
or not

i sleep only
as much as it
takes
to work without
getting too sad
thinking
of the legacy
of native
Canadians

and what you
mean
when you say
Canada.

pipe
line
pipe
line

put that in yer

2011 FEDERAL ELECTION RESULTS

still not
the right
font

those are some
way big
bases to those 1s

BLOC QUEBECOIS	LIBERALS	CONSERVATI VES	NDP	GREEN
4	34	166	106	1

and all the
words of victory
the papers
printed

what good
is it to you
to print
the reports
of papers
owned by your
buddies?
don’t you know
that’s unreliable?
we public
think
it’s bullshit anyway

ya have yer ones
who walk away
and yer ones
who join you, i guess

doesn’t stop it
from being bs

i guess

what am i
supposed to know
about this
line?

apparently
your approval
is a ‘no-brainer’

is that
what it takes
to lead us?
no-brains?

i don’t have
a degree

in pipeline
engineering

i engineer
the lines
of the soul,
brother,
dig it

i don’t have
a degree
in economics

i have a phd
in loveonomics
and iyain seen
no love
in your

commuki
nations

no i am painfully
aware
of the lack of information
in what has gotten through
to me
from the trough

iss all blue
blue tie
blue kerchief
blue on her
blue on the boy
blue on the daughter

you’re waving
all of you
your family
who
are you waving to?

MAJORITY

it’s a white
people
poster

though on tv
it shows you
let brown people
into your blue suit
party

who styled that shit?

don’t you know
what green is,
Harper

you used so much
blue ink
on so many trees

you used so much
blue
all the people who
didn’t give you money

don’t know

but you sent
posters
to your supporters

with so much
blue ink
and blue in your
shirts

and blue in
your eyes

and in the envelope
it came in
a window envelope
8 1/2 x 11
the same photo
full colour
on the outside

is that what you
did with the money
i gave you?

so much blue
it’s like you don’t know
green needs it

so much blue

ink to say you won
instead of
staying mum
and putting that
blue into greeness

you used up
so much blue
somewhere
a boreal forest
is a yellow thought

when i say
green
you see
dollars

green
dollars
green
dollars

when i say
green
you say
party

green
party
green
party

when i say
green
you say
innocence

green

green

when i say
green
you say
grass

green
grass
green
grass

stoned i tell you
stone

unfeeling
numb

stoned
stoned
adultery, for

stoned,
for
happy lips
press
against
healthy
babes

i’m sorry
i apologize in advance
this is a story
of disrespect

i disrespected you

i was working
on my writing
and not generating
enough product
in a timely
fashion i’m sure
you can appreciate
a drive for productivity

and one of the workplace
gurus
said try a disincentive
try if you miss
a deadline
create consequences
give money to cause
you don’t like

i didn’t use my name

i did it online
under anonymous
ya i used my email
but anonymous
it said in the field
anonymous
it said in the field

it said in the field
it said in the field
it

got fucked
in the field

[oh there's
that intergenerational
trauma
again

showing its ass
in the street]

anyway so why
do i eventually
start getting
phone calls?

CAN I SPEAK TO MR OR MRS ANONYMOUS PLEASE?

I’m sorry?

CAN I SPEAK TO MR OR MRS ANONYMOUS PLEASE?

Um, there’s
no one here
by that name.

Hello?

CAN I SPEAK TO MR OR MRS ANONYMOUS PLEASE?

There’s no one here by that name.
(!)

Hello?

Uh, can I speak to … uh … are you mizz … Anonymous?

This sweet boy
made it
sound like
a name in Greek.

Innocence.

No, I am not
Ms. Anonymous

(!!!!!!!)

(sweet, sweet child)
do you know
what anonymous
means?

Um, well …

can we count on your support?

No (sweet, sweet child)
you can’t.
I put anonymous
because I didn’t
want you to know
who I am
enough to call me.

Please don’t call me
anymore.

Harper
you know
damn well
I don’t have
time

to read the paper
in detail

you rely on it
you bank on it

words
words

a headline here
a bite there

in my inbox

there was a picture
of a native man
bent over crying

it was the picture
of a noble chief
he had no shirt
his dignity painted
on his chest
his head in his hands

his people
in his posture

don’t worry
it wasn’t tagged
to one of your
CANADA
brand-pitches

t’was a dam project
in brazil

they have those
headaches
there too

then you sent me another
pic
no not one of those

i dated a politician
who liked to show
his cock
but it wasn’t yours
you own lots
of cock
i know but
his wasn’t yours

anyway
you sent me
a pic
with my name
on it

my name printed
under a picture
of you blue suit
lips press
thumbs up

no family
you
the flag
a podium
a mic like black cock

[oops that metaphor
was meant
to be private

i'm like totally
facebook
about my sexy
thoughts

i am NOT saying
that the image
that you sent me
of yourself
with your thumbs up
and CANADA
in your imagination-less
font on the podium

has a black
huge]

mic in your face.

oyesidid

then
stop
sending me
pictures

CAN I SPEAK TO MR OR MRS ABBY PLEASE?

This is Sonnet L’Abbé.

OH GOOD AFTERNOON MRS LABAY THIS IS JOHN
FROM THE HARPER CONSERVATIVES.

Who!?

THE HARPER CONSERVATIVES.
THE HARPER CONSERVATIVES, MA’AM, I

I know who
I mean
I thought
I told you
not

wait

how do you know
my name?

(!)

Look.

Take me off your list.
I never gave you
my name.
Take me off your list.

The above
happens again.

The above happens

Look.
I’ve asked you
to take my name
off your list
more than once

and here you are
on my

li
li
li

l
i
n
e.

Sir, this is embarrassing
to say to you
but I only gave you
money

as part of a writerly
aversion therapy
that was supposed
to scare me

into working.

(The antipathy
I have for supporting
what reads
in every gesture
of your body

like personal greed
and greed’s
selective networks
of sharing

that smile
from the inside of it

that look in the eye
from being so in
there is only outside

you is
the innest
you
bad

i know,
i know

i dated you
well, one of your
so-called
adversaries, anyway)

That antipathy
was supposed to propel me
into working

it didn’t
(i owed u fitty
i set another goal
there goes
another fifty dollar bill)

so now you
have my donation.

Please take me
off the list now.

I won’t be giving you
any more.

So after that
you sent me:

one email
one email
a phonecall
one email
a phonecall
a phonecall
one email
one email
one email
one email

a big fucking victory poster
one email

one email
a please-do-not-bend
photo of yourself
with my name on it

thanking me
for making this happen

one email

like the ex

a misguided interaction
with consequences

one finishes
by simply
ignoring

the continual line
crossings

i’m assuming
you don’t read
poems

lest you gloat
about how effective
your campaign was

to get your little text
head
into my
mouth

so much
mojo
in this po
emm

so much
mojo
in miss po

all the work
i put
into a pipe

otherwise
i would lie
in

for generations

i would lie in
for generations

all the smoke
you blow
the blue
you used

antipathy
doesn’t work

i would
if i could
antipathy
doesn’t
work

i can’t work
for you

oh but i do
i do
dis-disrespect
you

my heart i am
smoking

it kills me
how you don’t
listen

it kills me
how you
just use up
all my game

Weston McGee • August 13, 2009 • Prince George, BC

The economy in Prince George wasn’t looking good that year.
Jobless rate hit 12 percent, had some crying in their beer.
With plywood plants and careers going up in flame,
Many sought some escape with a World Baseball game.

But could the games be held, as it requires a lot of money?
Two hundred grand to bring the games, whether rainy or sunny.
Many local companies dug deep to sponsor the games,
Still more money needed though, the organizer exclaims.

Then came Roger of Enbridge to make the winning catch:
“Our goals and your objectives are a perfect match.
We’re building more than just pipelines but we need to dig a ditch,
Which I may fail to mention before I throw the first pitch.”

“Twenty five grand from us will bring the games to Prince George,
Just change the name and this partnership we will forge.
Enbridge will supply jobs, and make the route safer than before.
These are great economic benefits you can not ignore!”

From the tar sands of Alberta this oil will flow,
This pipeline must be built for this quid pro quo.
Across the plain and over the Rocky Mountains high,
Then through the Douglas Channel nothing could go awry…

With great aplomb, the games started with euphoria,
But then came Charles of the Dogwood, from Victoria.
With friends from Prince George, he started a protest:
“This project may not be as safe as they suggest.”

A big sign the Dogwoods carefully constructed,
With which they hoped to protest unobstructed.
“Enbridge equals oil spills” the sign proclaimed,
But this message got some in the crowd enflamed.

By most reports they quietly handed out baseball cards,
And tried to make arrangements with the security guards.
The Dogwoods don’t have the same money as the business tycoons;
So they needed to get their message out by handing out balloons.

Then Charles hung the sign on a fence to take a picture,
But this action apparently violated some unwritten stricture.
Volunteers swarmed in and scrunched up the sign;
Saying the Dogwoods had stepped over the line.

The sign was removed from the fence in some manner;
But Charles hung on to the end of his banner.
Pulled behind the bleachers, the struggle ensued,
With many bystanders wondering how it would conclude.

Charles was on the ground with a foot to his chest,
And lost the banner despite giving his best.
A balloon blew onto the field after it got loose,
Interrupting play and giving security an excuse.

“You’re out!” yelled security, to Charles’ dismay,
Escorted out of the park despite wanting to stay.
Charles considered reporting a theft, the sign not returned,
The ultimate fate of the sign has never been learned.

A record hot streak it was, we couldn’t have had better weather,
But I hope that Prince George will learn to treat guests better.

leigh grant • August 2011 • Sault Ste. Marie, ON

oilsands
gritty wet
rich resource
natural
of nature
from nature
leeching
sucking
draining
richness
to valueless
dollars
seepage
unnatural
until well
is dry
and land
is tarred
barren from
misappropriation
of funds
to southern States
where the
almighty
dollar reigns
over the hearts
and minds of
the corporate
officers
the chairmen
bankers
the political
yessirs
whose minds are
inky black
dripping crudely
out their mouths
in speeches

over water
sandwiches
out their ears
while reason
is fabricated by
their accounts
out their eyes
affronted by
the beggars
who litter
their
street,
ruin their
environment.

Christi Kramer • Vancouver, BC • September 26, 2011

What will you do? There will be no one to lead you.

If there is no river, no ibis or chora
If there is no whisper which way

No pontiff, mother, shaman
There will be no drum, no waving prayer to guide you

No horizon, no stupa, no star
No piece of bark or beach of sand to crawl into

No moss or rock or garden
So how then, will you walk foot before foot to your heaven?

Christi Kramer • Vancouver, BC • September 26, 2011

Shall we have a funeral for the song that’s lost
How will we bury melody
All these jonquil bulbs crowed in soil, pushing

When we part this earth, moist, cold, rich
limp lyric down, will you lie quiet
shall we expect you to work your way up root and stem
as you know from the throat
hum your blossom

There is ceremony for language lost
a counting of the body of utterance
a noted silent spring

Nothing, nothing sadder than this; nothing more terrifying
Why the corpse of a bird, neck broken, should be burned
You know how smoke rises
To witness that hopeful tune, interred, too much

But what comes from the ground then
Passes through the drummer’s toes and spine and ribs
Could never be anything other than grief     (differently sung: courage)

Sweet, my sweet
Over your grave, I’ve nothing to give
Sans hymn, sans psalm, sans chirp, sans outro
Let me place my own body next to you again

Christi Kramer • Vancouver, BC • September 26, 2011

The story of rice: hunger

in the abundance of each grain: what is absent, what is not

how many spoonfuls

what river of waste and wanton

diverged from her thirst, the grass of this seed   to feed       starving sister

Golden, a phrase of human protein;

this rice pretends it’s breast milk: not really, it wishes (I believe)

it were rice, a hunger of its own for the field

Some say, in each grain, is God

then, in each bead of sweat,

in the milling

Where something like the wind and sorrow, pushes through the grasses

the song of rice: my sister’s voice

rising from the field.

Christi Kramer • Vancouver, BC • September 26, 2011

Come out here, she said. All, drunk with the scent of spring flowers. A field, blanket
of narcissus, hyacinth. Each rooted, bulb.
          Displayed spring mountain, valley, her own.

The tradition of a people bent to peace but bent by war: white petals, flowers in the mouth
of a gun, to stop the barrel.
          Dancing among mountain flowers in spring.

    Each farmer plants his field in spring. Each spring they dance among the flowers.

It was the mother had to pay, to buy the bullet. They brought the corpse and flung it
down, her son. They made her pay them money for the gun they’d used,
to do the killing. Now the killers have to pay for the bombs set loose upon the heads
of everyone. Made to pay in oil for the rockets and the dead.
          (It is the mother still, made to pay the same.)

Come out here, she said. All shielded their faces from the storm. A moon, an angry, disturbed moon.
          Displayed the sky, her own. Gave her warning: something wrong.

Shortly after, in barrels of water caught. – A blessing from God, for all – We bring down
from the heavens a blessed rain. It fell from sky. It is the hands of people bring mischief upon earth.

Streaks of black rain across her face.     She rubbed black rain across her face and it stuck.

          They drank in again, the smell of flowers in spring, burning.

Mustard seed. Faith as. If you have     as a seed.      The field, when tilled in spring. Kills
the farmer. Plowing up a pocket of mustard gas. Planting through

the bulbs, gone wild. No. Wild, gone. Gone and dying to be wild again.