Got on my prairie playlist, Jimmy Rodgers,
Jesse Mae Hemphill, and Django Reinhardt.
Grasses, grain silos, cows, and irrigation
Jacks flowed past. I saw the red pill, said I
Want to paint it black. No Wonderland under
Hill here or anywhere, only underground.
That's where the real adventures were.
But there I was going, horizontally, stuck
To the surface of change like a stowaway
Barnacle stuck to a hull it mistook for a rock.
On the top, it was Canada, prosperous.
Underneath it was the realization that
If you could follow your demise down
You wouldn't only wake up revelatory,
You wouldn't wake up at all. All my songs
On the playlist were recorded by bodies
Insistent but infected, and now long dead.
They never existed. And I thought, we all
Live on the lives that never existed. Yes.
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