The Incorrection

From Sasamat Street in Vancouver to Samoa, the fish, fowl and animals ask what we are up to with our fixings, our vegetarian dressings-up of salad and tofu to make them meat enough for us. Will that change the flux of our existence on the planet, the flow of everything in the old world into memory—from primary instinct into new good intentions, which turn into coils of the hangman’s rope, dangling over every deed—like mistletoe, waiting for the farewell kiss to all that, at low-cal Christmas, or next diet-mined and minded fest? The poems and the personae fight the battle between fat and thin, rhyme and un-rhyme, merely to find that love and poetry don’t care what shape or form we’re in, so long as we’re subject to the natural Law of Incorrection: In trying to correct an old wrong/I seem to create a new one/and find myself arraigned/by a hapless incorrection.