BIG HAIRY CANADIAN POEMS

CANADIAN PRUNE JUICE VORTEX

After crossing the boiling Atlantic, we paddled break-dancing rivers, built glorious hockey rinks, opened up shining donut franchises, peddled stolen subnatural resources to patriotic Akron foreign investors. From Newfoundlands Grand Banks to the vast plains of southern Saskatchewan, proud communities proudly dump their most pathetic brown-bagger down-on-all-fours juice heads, unload maximally dangerous bear-in-a-trap serial psycho boohoos, heave terminally obnoxious in-your-face spare change panhandlers onto Vancouvers indian slapshot punk needle streets. Turning and turning around Planet America, Satellite Canada cannot hear Ann of Green Gables, starving, hysterical, frostbitten, roaming strip and mini malls looking for discount jumper cables, sensible shoes, guaranteed rates of return on tax-sheltered investments. Boredom never troubles the Canadian. We can look at punch-drunk polar bears for eight hours. Burned out Eskimos slouch from Baffin Island, marvel at zoos, rehab centers, rush-hour; watch white folk boggle hockey bloopers, sweating grocery lines, haul home mickeys and two-fours. In the morning we will walk on Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump attired in lilac toques, protected by registered retirement savings plans, without Governor General Literary Awards, not shortlisted for Gerald Lampert Memorial Prizes. Portaging past Chalk Rivers mystic nuclear reactor, red leaves warning winters coming, no longer clerking in Robson Street shoe stores, we will lead Nelson Eddys plutonium canoe toward glowing Algonquin, stop for slurpies at Nippissing, fried donut holes in cottage country, pick up a keg in Rainy River. As autumn approaches we stuff storm window cracks with tight-as-a-ducks-ass Calgary Herald editorials, hear angry voices fly across hide-scraper politically correct CBC airwaves, plan winter getaways to Tucson Ann Murray snowbird trailer piles, order more cable channels for rubber boot shopping and Leaf replays. A window of opportunity opens in downtown Rimouski, Charles DeGaulle jumps out eating Parti Quebecois chips and gravy, demands RCMP stop bugging his Okanogan Doukhobor apple pie, heads for Winnipeg Central via Eatons mail-order Mad River Looney snowmobile. The being roars its own name on the National, waiters assure QE II her chicken cacciatore lived a happy life. The Prime Minister laughs from his seat on the throne as Margaret Atwood baptizes three-peckered Irving Layton with zero tolerance visible minority frozen Spanish Fly. Conrad Black eats pork and beans on toast, locked in a Chicago prison cell beside gangsta lords and ladies, casting evil spells through Francisco Franco daily newspapers. Pierre Trudeaus ghost floats over Nunavut gnawing birch bark jerky, shrugs off Trans-Canada First Nations roadkill, outlines shrunken Arctic ice caps with Leonard Cohen zen magic markers. Backbacon, Lysol, the Ralf Gustafson Prize: Canadas been called a pipsqueek mouse sleeping beside ten thousand billionaire elephants. World At Six reports Canadians love wearing Mickey Mouse ears more than going over Niagara Falls in a cracker barrel, prefer kissing Minnie Mouse to getting crushed by a giant foot. But Pest Control Magazine assures were not just another nodding-off snowblower hockey puck rodent farm, some small potatoes rubber bumper Jack Kerouac pea soup Disney North. Because we are the New Canada: dynamic, exciting, strong and free. Nobody kicks sand in our face, pushes us around, steals our cheese. Yes. We are in the flow, in the loop. Go ahead. See what happens when you try to spray us with DDT or hit us with a broom. Tokyo, Saturday, 03/24/07