Shame in Canada

Shame.

Toddlers spewed out.

Kids don't Know It yet

when missing like Mesi.

Teenagers are Amateurs of Love 'n Shame

but not at failing, falling or flailing.

And then as Adults we earned Ph.D.s at it.

so we Canadians export professors now.

To help keep the peace, it's our noble game.

On a Yonge corner a man rests, 

he jokes, "change for weed".

In an alley an obese woman rests, too,

but because of the heat.

At a school entrance a kid pauses,

is late, had to adjust his teeth braces.

In a housing unit he received winter's shelter,

 a blind and lonely person sprained his ear;

to porn from another man's surplus

wondering is it a multicultural Japanime?

Oh officer, may I legally feel barely hardly alive?

Bottles of socialites in paper bags

exchanged for mere pennies

of an elder's hanging life's elixir

as angels play puzzles 

but patients mop that kitchen

of life's little spills

even in these shameless white buildings.

Dr. G would smile

Good Morning staff!

but never hits no one,

like we the demons always do,

not even on the cleaning lady

and focuses whole heartedly

to solve society's BIG problems

on why the patient, 

on where the patient

on how the patient

on if the patient

on the patient

on why the patient, indeed, 

was just this once out of his

designated and labelled,

tax-funded and regulated,

democratically decided,

administratively allocated,

and naturally desired

very healing

imported from China

via the Panama canal

across the blue ocean

made from organic and holistic

bamboo

bed

and only then properly 

and adequately medically

well fed like always.

Dreams are meaningless,

said He, M.D. about my shame.

Protect them with entertaining torture

spoke long ago the super Guru.

Positivity and love without a Dislike button.

Self-talk and self-Help without a dis, buttons.

Mrs. Psychotherapist listens to me,

and all my psychoacoustic multicasts

about my psychoagnostic universe of

self-realization of all else.

So watching TV here is free.

But there's a camera above it,

it's not aimed at my joy,

or the big man below it

but at the only shared line

to protect our only right to wine

from the thieving Devil himself.

I watch without it

Dictators build weapons.

Women protest the kinder gender.

Los Angeles burned down

in a place I never heard of again.

But Americans erased an embassy,

in a state I never heard of again again.

Look the national guard

burned some weird folks flag,

in a prison I never dreamed of,

again again, again

but not in a country I love,

but in that other other other one,

full of hate, shame, but not love.

Demonstrate out of pride.

Demonstrate with us you retard.

Demonstrate against evil.

Fight the evil.

Protect the good.

They're those without it.

Kids drew in chalk a heart.

So did the police but on the sidewalk.

Children for change breakdanced.

SWAT breakdances for change, too.

Britney sang and shaved of shame,

but not of her account,

and neither did Canada

sing nor shave of it's shame and bottom line

ever, not even ever, on CBC.

but...

a

White man said the N word,

to himself,

all alone,

in his washroom,

with the door closed,

very quietly,

with the fan on,

an old very loud fan,

with improperly balanced blades,

rattling loose screw,

the fluorescent was loudly buzzing,

while the TV was loud in the living room,

with the front door locked,

and even the closet checked,

and then he looked to make sure,

his eye in the mirror was no longer white.

Didn't say it again.

He was proud.

Driver of the bus said without it

not my job folks

Driver of the Uber bus said without it

not my daughter folks

Driver of the bang bus said without it

not my sister folks

Driver of the prison bus said without it

not my problem boss

Driver of the corporate bus said without it

not my job bro.

And I, I am popping my zits.

Cleaning those bloody pits.

Rinsing with water.

Waiting thirty five minutes

for the cartoon to finish,

for the redness to disappear.

For my sisters to get dressed.

For my mom to finish her smokes.

For my dad to take his shower.

For the squirrels to pass by the backyard.

I am waiting a few more minutes

just in case,

I didn't time it the last time

I turned red.

A few more seconds,

I will not have anymore of it.

I will be free from it, on this day.

For my face to be like yours.

O beautiful Canada.

Not full of ugly insane horrific shame.

But then I see in the window

by the door, and remember.

An hour of rain walking to learn.

I am safe from it.

Every crushed snowflake reminds,

my handcuffs, your uniformed smiles.

Floating beneath camouflage and shadow.

Where maple leaves poison this shame,

and the rain, the igloo, you, too, Mr. Acrobat.

Then under prison lights my retort

Quietly slipping on my contraband

is an apology about my disorder.
How a Yonge fat kid with liquid in his eyes
has begged for change with a red face
all those years ago on a plateau of man.
Now at life's hill top it's mostly gone.
Beaten out of me, viciously, religiously.
But back then I had a full tank of the stuff.
Then I was even found guilty.
But never once caught in the act
of siphoning it from your factories.
Yes, I touched heaven in there.

I bent down and gave others

what they could only dream of.

Like me.

Love me.

Hug me.

Don't.

But it's still all there.

I can see it in my eyes every day.

And so do all the women.

Everywhere.

I am Canadia's Shame.

This little poem was inspired by Leonard Cohen's poetry and by what I have witnessed in Canada by almost everyone as being shame.  It seems Canadian society is driven by values set forth by a bully-like cultural system centered around what is considered shameful behaviour and what is not.  Because Canadian people are so peaceful and kind there is no violence in this nation visible nor reported on anywhere beyond it's borders.  There are no Chinese news reports in China about how abusive Canada is to its peoples.  So the only thing Canadians can use to control behaviour is shame, simple human shame.  By labelling a thing a shame, they can maneuver each other how the masters of shame seem fit.  For example, one line in the poem talks of a man begging for change for weed.  Change refers (and not reefers!) to spare change or coins, or money.  These are homeless people sitting, praying, hoping, someone will give them money for a home or food.  But since nobody in Toronto ever does, they took it upon themselves to become humorous and wrote "change for weed" as in it's not for the obvious, since the society is so loving obviously we have food and shelter, it's change for drugs.  As in we have everything imaginable, just not the super duper fun stuff, like marijuana.  We have clean water, heat, and all, just not fun, so spare change for weed is the message on the homeless signs written on cardboards.  The actual shame in that case is not the homeless man's shame, but that of the society that ignored and abused these people into jokingly mocking their own suffering with such a slogan.  That line alone describes decades of what I witnessed in many parts of Toronto, and other lines describe other aspects I have seen with my low vision eyes.  I do not understand how six million people living and working in Toronto can not simply help each other to fix this one little problem, but do think they are such peacekeepers that they can help other nations even without even knowing those people properly.  One of the worst things I have seen in Toronto related to this line is the police parked across the street from homeless people sitting in the middle of the road as cars swerve around them without the cops doing a thing but attending to richer and more important to society people, such as those rich enough to be drunk at a pub.  Somehow a person in the middle of the road sitting in the middle of the night begging for change, out of desperation, is not violence, it's not murder, it's not the result of terrorism, it is just a waste of human shame.  This is why the poem is about shame, as Canada has no crime, no hatred, no racism, but it has, yes, shame.  By shaming a person they can be made homeless, they can be made into anything imaginable.  Canadians are that evolved and that intelligent.  In fact, the authorities do not even need to interrogate a suspect, nor take one to court, let alone point a finger of blame, for blame is a sin, as it's an accusation.  But shame certainly is allowed and that is what modern Canadian culture is built on.  Do you know why?  Because shame is the least censored deed in children's school yards.  Koodies are a shame, but violence is absent, obviously.  Never violence, but always shame.  I think I just wrote a second shameful poem about Canada.  Shame on me, indeed.