As if the stairs
unfolded before our
every synchronized step, like some
Hollywood contraption descending
clean through the glassy
surface of Box Lake, British
Columbia. A pair of voices hover
above the centre of the lake. A
boat drifts towards the shore,
a conversation interrupted
by sudden sleep. I slip out
of my slot-machine diaper
and you lick the spiders
from my eyebrows: this requires
a university degree. The duck
glides across the surface, a
trail in its wake. We hike
the trail. "I am a basketcase.
I am not a basketcase. I
am a basketcase." Your fingernails
are made of clarinet keys. Benny
Goodman sits on the dock,
plays with toy soldiers. We
stand firmly against the war. We are
against decomposition. We compose
ourselves and begin
the elegant ascent.
I look at my watch.
It is ten minutes to the moment when I climb
into a shoebox: black canvas
All-Stars. Ten minutes later
I am in. I secede from Canada,
form a Sandinista government
here in the shoebox,
I have 100 per cent support
of the citizens of the shoebox.
I eliminate polio and promote literacy.
Free textbooks for every schoolchild!
I nationalize the industries, spread
the wealth, and every politician is a poet!
Weeks pass in my paradise, then years.
I become dissatisfied. The country is cramped.
I haven’t stretched in ages.
I topple myself and install myself.
Nothing changes.
hunkamooga.com.
