The Ghosts of Jay MillAr (8 page)
swimming at dusk, the water
feels like air, tho it cups the
balls more gently, holds them where
the careless gravity of the lake seems
to halt, and can float quietly, a
point of departure to wake up
those orange wisps and ochre folds
of cloud strings from across the water
that hang before the red sun wash and
that silence the lake is fumbling for
turns them into the circular motions
we make, both above and below the horizon
sound to hold our dark hovering limbs
Seasonal Drift
August contemplation of days, remember to
slow down days again. October⦠days,
they are, after all, only days: a surface
clouds at three in the afternoon
and a branch that suspends it (thought)
shrink each single motions grows until it
vanish into the perfectly capable blue
(sea monster) (heaven) (wing gust)
but it was the cool rain came down that
time of year, nice, we thought, to close
down the morning, the evening, and of now.
(the end) to be the darkened skies of
hold the holes of our dreams, all the
excitement, all the lust, now is cool and
heavy (closed) way down here in the
just imagine what behind the clouds
all our little veils falling from the trees
come about their way to catch our little
our thoughts, we are all angels, all
shy birds who watch each of us
clouds out the front room window in
the afternoon, from the inside out
when we remember how we were absolute
(happy) our dreams when they were our
selves, shadows of branches at dawn.
Flock
nothin's what it seems
lies, illusions, pure empty beings
together in nothing we are
in love with not being
here
too
non-being slips over
into another wing
that's floatin' up the street eh?
away from the lake
into the what? a
fortress called forest
Leave Me Alone:
1 sound retreats forever into the wash
2 we have everything at every moment
3 the sound of the call is so pure
Birds Land on the Roof of This Room
and I am sad. They are so small and
I can hear the sound of their wings
folding as though there were no windows,
no wood, or air, between myself and them.
One roof over they squawk and shit
they hop about from feet to feet with
something great in mind, a terrific plan
to which I have not yet been introduced.
I listen to them surely discussing
the weather, what to eat, where to get laid,
etcetera. Then they fly off. I sip my coffee and
I am sad. Being human thinks so hard some
times of all the things we could have had.
Notes to an Untitled Poem
ONE
) everyone please breathe to begin; for it is the air that holds us.
TWO
) defined by a freedom to choose your voice, not to find it; to choose the chorus, not to discover any of them.
THREE
) I still believe and will continue to believe we have much to learn from the flocking birds, those who move together and sing to each other. Unconcerned. Suspicious. Migratory and Feared.
FOR
no real community could ever be fully understood as a community by anyone, even those who belong to it.
FOR
there should be such flexibility within the ranks.
FOR
the mystery of play we have gathered. FOR the presence of any ghosts you desire.
FIVE
thru
NINE
) if involved in a community, however diversified or small, one tends not to feel a faceless stick in a group of empty sticks, as one does sitting on the subway during morning rush hour, then coming up the steps of St Andrew Station at say 8:28 in the morning, a herd of cattle oppressed to the extent of blindness and disregard. Where no muse could possibly bother to penetrate our sense of hopelessness, the death of the imagination first thing upon waking, but lives do exist in the sense that one finally feels free to exist as they may, in a complete and utter anarchy amongst the ranks, free breath for everyone! (breathe dammit) an intoxication in and about the premises that allows for this cast of invisible ballots that has real meaning.
TEN
) it is the role of those already established to exploit all those interested in becoming a part of their community, despite how evil this may seem at first, it is for the benefit of the whole, since the older members will forever be comfortable in their declining years. Such âexploitation', as it has been originally considered, will eventually wear away to something equivalent to mere initiation. Watch to see who shall fall far from the nest through our notes.
ELEVEN
thru
THIRTEEN
) It might be said (indeed it shall) that I never really understood any sense of community until I met my inlaws, who are in fact humans of the divine order, an expansive family in many ways, limited in others, but for all intensive purposes are a flock of large birds, Canadian Geese or Whooping Cranes, travelling among each other across a sky no one else will ever see. I would naturally come to understand them first, for they have been doing what all other communities I encountered set out to do without saying a thing. And while strife may occur among them, it is because they actually feel that way about some other person, and not because of some theoretical fakery caused by their own sense of failure, or because they are unable to accept the fact that things could easily be otherwise.
A GREAT BLUE HERON FLIES OVER THE
401. What could be more beautiful?
FOURTEEN
) history is the vehicle of the community, tradition the forgetting thereof, and the intensity of any layer will resonate against the intensity of all others at any given moment until the high note of the underworld commune breaks through. Watch us shift together to flock across your sky.
FIFTEEN
) a community of losers such as sparrows, pigeons, or european starlings, all of them surviving on the crumbs of the establishment, are outsiders within the wings, they tend to be more open minded, more diverse and revolutionary; they have more will to sacrifice. It has been said it is wrong to bite the hand that feeds you but there are only so many ways to survive, and what if those hands have never offered anything let alone a meal? Flesh is food too, as is the mind. Consider the pigeons. Bite away! Will you never be cared for by those who have agreed that culture should be raped and pillaged for their own security? When will thanks be given for what has been given? The Real Planet lives in an atmosphere of doubt. At least someone can think about how the real planet is dying. At least some think about it differently.
Bravery must be Stupidity, but hopefully it will survive.
1
Such as it is,
ORIGIN
is a tricky phenomenon to negotiate, let alone come to terms with. It is your gift to be present precisely where you are not.
Alex Cayce
lives in Windsor Ontario, where he is a member of The South Western Coalition for the Birds. His wife Alice is an artist, specializing in water colour and sketch. Her work often accompanies each of these texts. She has had exhibitions at the Jack Miner Bird Sanctuary and at the Point Pelee National Park Recreation Centre.
portrait of Alex Cayce by Alex Cameron
H. Azel
