The Body Always Gives a Shit
A poem in three parts
I ask for audience from my reputable white father. He takes delight to see his impact; his venture capital shifts world do-gooders’ deeds. Non-profits vye for support; his foundations make decisions; a liberalism made by Fortune’s five hundred favourites sets philanthropy’s pace. Talks offer me a doubtful platform: my discomfort around the fact of his fly net worth can tone down my truth. Formal wear heralds the ruling tribes’ authority; birth or wealth informs which Toronto is handed us by our fathers; the pallor of glamour makes a girl of color clamour for her entitlement. Donating is a wealthy-minded person’s art; so I donate my creative endowment to him who needs an inspiration not found on the market. My flow is invested in a gratitude for the dictation Earth gives; my restorative rhyme is simple soft power, breathed in intentional mind, about legacies. Meanwhile, poor Kinder Morgan despises my friends; meanwhile, the state hates mouthy journalists. Who dares drop a word of truth in such usual business? What can a CEO give to help a poet resist media monopolies? Can new philanthropy’s abundance amplify suffocated voices? Dig this Canuck dub poetry as a partner, a vocal facilitator, stressing wealth inequality as an ugly story in our lives’ fragile interlocution. Some men know power that silences debate; my storytelling heart’s obedience is to this witness, hoping that benefactor and his crew’s interest is in sharing what I have. These sentences I bequeath to you, imaginers of human purpose, and your frenemies.