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Archive for the ‘indie writer’ Category

The Algebra of Inequality*

Once they enter the algorithms
consult their computer oracles
assigning dollar value to life & limb
with suitable aplomb

In the boardrooms of corporations
where the wolves run free
who will pay due compensation
for the sheep they slay?

 

%22Algebra%22

 

*Title derived from “Report” (short story by Donald Barthelme)

© 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

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DSC00570First Snow

 

Winter invariably defeats
the colorful palette
that precedes it

trees brutally denuded, stripped
of their plumage

hillsides and glens
made barren by the
mass killing of flowers

 
July 1, 2014

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Dore1

Reprisal

 

An intimacy only death allows.

 

Forced into close alignment to conserve space.

 

A press of upturned faces.

 

Rows and rows, near a field of spring wheat.

 

Bright sunlight, a perfect cloudless day.

 

In defiance of this latest atrocity.

 

 

 * * *

 

Dore3

The Last Room

 

Is someone there?

 

Why don’t you come nearer?

 

Step into the light…

 

I can barely see you.

 

There’s so little time.

 

Please, show yourself.

 

I don’t want to be alone.

 

Approach, stranger:

 

Take pity on my penitent soul.

 

* * *

stadium2

Chase Scene

 

—careening down a narrow path, bucking and weaving through the forest, in headlong flight.

 

“Hurry! It’s catching up with us!”

 

Realizing my mistake when the trees around us begin to glow, giving off a vivid, blue light.

 

The ground vibrating, feeling it through the floorboard beneath my feet.

 

Oh, Christ!  Oh, Jesus, help me—“

 

The light coruscating, fierce, accompanied by a blaze of heat, the exterior of our vehicle starting to blister and smoke…

 

* * *

stadium1Sheep

 

Reporting as ordered, funneled in with the rest.

 

Hemmed and jostled, barely able to move.

 

Exhausted and compliant.

 

A clipped, officious voice from the loudspeaker, appealing for calm.

 

Distant shouting, the news spreading in visible ripples through our midst.

 

The gates are closing

 

 

© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

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DSC00555Extinct

 

It flutters and at first I think it’s a leaf or a feather.

Run to catch it.

But it moves in my hands!

Drop it like it’s hot.

Go and get Mother.

Telling me to shush as she kneels beside it.

Looking up at me, crying.

“It’s called a butterfly. Butterfly.”

Making me repeat it, so I’ll never forget.

 

 

© Copyright, 2014  Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)

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Want to give a plug to my Twitter page, which is a good way of keeping up with all my projects and latest activities.

You’ll be notified when there’s any new blog posting, either here or over at RedRoom, plus I’ll often toss in quotes and verse and snippets, links to interesting news and people I’m stalking, er, following.

Check it out.

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Dilemma

 

Let’s say I do it, let’s say, dearest,

I tear down this crummy, old fence

of ours—then what?

 

Do I replace it with another fence,

clean and white and perfectly straight,

the wood treated with poison

solvents to keep it from weathering?

 

Perhaps a higher fence, six feet

or more, the boards squeezed close

together to dissuade prying eyes;

a solid wall to keep others out.

 

If I plant some kind of hedge, caragana

or what have you, as has been suggested,

will I feel suitably secure (i.e. is such a flimsy

barrier a credible deterrent against thieves)?

 

The other option is to leave our backyard

wide open and accessible to the alley…but

I’m not comfortable with that.

 

I agree that our fence is worn out,

dilapidated, something of an eyesore;

I apologize if it embarrasses you.

 

But as I’ve just explained, it’s no easy

matter replacing it—and some of your ideas

involve considerable expense. We must not

act hastily, allow emotion to over-rule reason.

 

I think for now I’ll keep propping it up as best

I can, until a practical solution presents itself

or, more likely, the entire goddamned thing finally

collapses, defeated by a horde of years.

 

Fence

 

 * * * * *

Diagnosis

 

Apparently I suffered from a

“cute anxiety”, that’s what Miss Haynes,

the school counselor, told my mother,

which somehow explained the boils,

bed-wetting and frequent crying fits.

 

I remember wondering if this cuteness

was curable and how I got it when I

was such an ugly child, my sisters said

so, and no one else took my side or

stated a contrary view.

 

boy

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100_1027…confined in some kind of plummeting spacecraft, unfamiliar controls, banks of switches and gauges, a bewildering array.

Extreme disorientation, not helped by the jolting descent, my capsule pitching and rolling, a sense of increasing speed and friction–

Fire! Fire! Engulfed in a sheath of flame, watching helplessly as long, thin tracks of plastic slide down the porthole-like windows.

I’m melting.

Turbulence reaching maximum intensity, violent gyrations and bumps, hearing the roar even through my helmet.

A shooting star.

100_1028

Something…heaviness! Good old gravity. Like a slow-settling weight. Or turning to stone.

The fires are going out, leaving behind a blackened cinder.

Me.

Outside: purple. Purple-blue. Blue.

100_1031Landing on water.

Bobbing on a choppy sea, weeping with relief.

Waiting for someone to come and get me.

Wondering how long it will take.

 

 

Copyright, 2014 (All Rights Reserved)

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flowerpowerI checked the interval since my last post and actually winced, a physical manifestation of my shame.

I must redouble my efforts at keeping this blog up to date. Maintaining contact with my fellow human beings. Not that my life is full of incident—that’s part of the problem, I’m hard-pressed to come up with anything more interesting than Sat at desk, stared off into space, played shoegaze music until inspired to scribble a few words

Writing that over and over again, like Jack Torrance in The Shining.

I’ve said it before but I’ll repeat it for the sake of added emphasis: I have no life.

I did manage a trip in to Saskatoon to see a completely whacked film called “A Field in England”, posting about it over at my film blog.

Reading lots. Music constantly thundering away in my office.

And…reflecting…yes, rather a lot of reflecting.

Think I’m still in the process of adjusting to our sons moving out, suffering a bit from “empty nest syndrome”. Occasional bouts of loneliness and melancholia. This house seems awfully bloody empty some days. Feels like I’m transitioning into a new phase in my life, a fifty-something guy whose kids are no longer underfoot, suddenly free of many (not all) of the demands of parenthood. My role, my identity, has undergone a massive change in the past few months and it’s going to take awhile, I think, before I feel comfortable in my skin again.

Will close off with something for the mothers out there—after all, it’s your special day coming up on Sunday.

In his book In Praise of Love, Alain Badiou quotes from a letter philosopher Andre Gorz wrote to his wife, Dorine. It’s one of the most beautiful statements on romantic love I’ve yet encountered, a paean to devotion and eternal, unbreakable bonds:

“You’ll soon be eighty-two. You have shrunk six centimeters, you only weigh forty-five kilos yet you are as beautiful, gracious and desirable as ever. We have now lived together for fifty-eight years and I love you more than ever. In the hollow of my chest I can feel again that ravaging emptiness that can only be filled by the warmth of your body against mine.”

Thank you to our wives and mothers, the wise women and brave sisters who give us life and protect us from the worst aspects of ourselves.

We celebrate and salute you.

leaf

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SnowdenA couple of months ago AdBusters put out the word that they were looking for new visions to empower and inspire the eco-warriors and Occupiers who have lost their passion and need a fresh injection of ideology and righteous anger to motivate them and rekindle their energies.

I gave it some thought and wrote up a manifesto of sorts, a call to arms, an appeal for a “slow revolution”.

Dutifully sent it off to AdBusters around the end of February…and never received so much an an acknowledgement in reply.

Guess they didn’t like what I had to say.

Well, I’m attaching my “Blueprint For a Slow Revolution” to this post and you’re free to download and peruse it. Pass it on to whoever you like, see if it provokes any discussion.

Frankly, I think it’s a deeply subversive and dangerous document.

Read on:

Blueprint for a Slow Revolution

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My new short film, “The Pact”, now available for viewing on YouTube:

…and be sure to check out the other films on my personal “channel”.

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