Like Flies to Wanton Boys

Theodicy, 2008 - Butterflies - Rumpelstiltskin - With Flu, at 100 Degrees


Theodicy, 2008

The little boy with twig arms and hydrocephalic brain

bangs his head against the wall ten hours a day

in that sad room with the urine smell

in the Baker Centre next to the Bow River

in Calgary in the winter of 1977

in that sad room in my head.

If there's a grand reason for that

then there's an answer for everything. 





What dreams do young women dream 

under the canopies of their four-poster beds

in the silent hours of the night?


When they open the flowers of their eye-lashes

fluttering like butterflies in the dark

do they smell the sweetness

of the upland fields 

of their origin?

And when the valley men

come to harvest 

with their iron machetes 

riding their hooves and leather straps

do they remember the sight of the bright flowers

and the sweet smell of lavender that once drifted in the wind?





What happens to a Stream reversed,

When expectations of the Golden Age

With Rumpelstiltskin power

Thread Straw from memories of Gold?


With Flu, at 100 Degrees


Even in the harshest light
with pounding head and bloodshot eyes
I'd rather see.

In death we may be the same as limestone
or silicon in space ten billion years away.
So breathe, albeit smog-choked air.

Those who live are here to feel the moment
and give it meaning
for in the vast scripts and logs of time
numbers are but numbers and cannot breathe.
So smell the moment's air
though it smells like burnt rubber
and doesn’t care.


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