13-30 Paper Airplane

This paper airplane has left an arrow of furrowed earth and destroyed buildings in its wake.
This is the danger of ideas.
Something light and fun.
Something to prove aerodynamic principles to children.
A tiny example of what could be done.
What might be possible.
Extrapolated for destruction.
Too often, that is our application.
“Can this be a lever for power?” is the question always asked
Usually just before or after “Can I have sex with it?”
I’ve heard it said that the problem is that we have primitive biology, medieval institutions, and space-age technology.
I don’t think they’re mixing well.
I can’t decide it the world has become more turbulent or if the turbulence that’s always been there has been exposed.
Giving everyone a voice has made me stop wishing to be psychic.
The rivers in a lot of minds are too dark for me.
It feels like the masks are dropping.
It feels like the masquerade is ending.
Like the lights are coming on.
And I don’t like what I’m seeing under the disguises.
The winds these days are too strong
And I feel like a paper airplane in a hurricane


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14-30 Bus Knife

I’m in the back of the bus when I hear a clunk

 

I look up from my book

The boy near the stairs has dropped something

From the sound, I thought maybe it was a water bottle

 

It’s not

 

It’s a knife

 

A good-sized folding knife

A heavy knife

And it’s open

I’m a little scared to see this youth with a knife on the bus

The young man is First Nations

The Boushie verdict has just passed

And I am white

 

And for a second I am worried

My threat level jumps up a few notches but I don’t do anything

I don’t leap to conclusions

But the fear is there

 

The boy brings the knife into his lap and continues to use it

On the giant scratch-and-win ticket he has in his hands

 

His long black hair dangling forward, focusing on the card

It’s one of those Bingo-type scratch-and-wins

With lots of little squares

That takes time

Perfect for a bus ride

 

And I feel a lot of things

Shame is one

Self-examination is another

I think of all of my friends from First Nations

The amount of reading I’ve done

The poetry I’ve heard

And I feel guilty about thinking about my ‘First Nation friends’

 

And I know that if I called the cops right now

And said there was a First Nation youth on the bus with a knife

 

That they would show up and definitely arrest him

And possibly kill him

And that if the situation were reversed

And he called the police on me

That they would should up and definitely arrest him

And possibly kill him

And maybe that’s an exaggeration

And maybe it isn’t

 

But I felt the white power I held in my hands

And I felt the white fear I held in my heart

And I felt sick

 

About what’s been wrought here

And I felt powerless to help in the face of the magnitude of it

And I felt ashamed of the privilege that I’m still neck-deep in

Even though I feel halfway woke

And I know this poem is nothing

And is just more white liberal hand-wringing

 

But I felt a sharp underline

Cut into my reality

Again

 

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