thud—thoughts on a found poem

The full open bellows of the earth have sung,
and now all poets may repose in sleep;
for experts have the bullshit slung
and piled it high and piled it deep.

Somebody makes a lot of dough
when words like these are piled for a city;
it makes us citizens want to go
to the crapper when mottos sound so silly.

Let’s not hire a poet to paint with birds
when we can get a bureaucrat to mince our words
and say things committees don’t find absurd—
and poutine is gravy over doggy curds.

So: ignore our location —near everything else—
and ignore the St. Lawrence to boot;
ignore Montreal, Ottawa, the U.S.
and the highways that link to those routes,

it’s the world of possibilities they say in French and English:
possibility means growth and more box stores
that makes the bureaucratic heart feel cuddly and tinglish:
and us more homogenous, with the same pox sores;

Possibility means sell out to every global concept:
give our lives to the very lowest bidder;
become part of Walmart and join the golden concert—
or don’t: for just this once, please reconsider:

if “A city with a world of possibilities”
sounds generic and unspeakably prosaic
please reconsider all the ways we’re not a silly city
and get a better slogan for city’s sake!

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