Fuck I love this song;
Have an Eidetic Memory –
Of singing it loudly whilst walking across the old,
UBC Bus Loop Home.
Before Construction of Olde.
Late at night,
Chef for a few years –
I’d be alone,
Echoing across concrete campus.
1970’s architecture reverberations!
For The Olympic Gold Medal –
When the Men won,
Right after the Women,
My stupid fratboy roomie;
Drunk as a skunk on Water & Vodka,
Or Cheap Beers,
Ran to our fridge –
Took chomps out of a head of Iceberg lettuce,
Then threw it out our 11th story window.
Afterwards,
We all got separated.
Ended up high fiving,
Random People,
As crowds filled Robson Street.
Seas of Red & White.
Grim reminders of Cultural Genocide.
Cultural Appropriation.
Only the warlike Nations,
Weathered those horrific storms.
Thank fuck for the proliferation of AK-47s,
Post USSR Collapse,
I guess?
Punk in this city,
Is dead.
So is the artsy kid –
Doing Slam Poetry every Monday,
At Cafe Deux Soleil.
It’s funny.
This Broken Eidetic Memory,
Of a Clan!
Unless I focus very hard,
Make point of transfer;
From short term memory to long term…
Everything,
Mere radar,
Or sonar.
Seeking opposites to attract to –
To bring forth more of the story.
These poems are just an ever-evolving story.
A Codex I’m leaving,
As a sort of Epitaph.
For Me.
For Us.
For Humanity,
Perhaps.
Secular Religion,
Is the most powerful kind.
The Clever can turn any Portfolio –
Into a Cult,
Or Organized Religion.
You know my stance on those!
As Legend…
Becomes more malleable with time…
I myself find the echoes hitting harder.
But I refuse to be a Coward,
Like all the Ryans I know.
I need to continue to seek out people,
Who will dredge up fragments of memory.
Pulling out pieces of our stories.
Sort of symbiosis.
Curator,
For All My Dead Selves.
Old Eidetic Memories.
