calgary boy in nyc. this is collection of my poetry, musings, inspration for art projects, & rad reblogs.

Secret Santa Poem

Ode to a Strand of Hair

Oh, strand of hair on this rolling chair,
How did you get there?
What brings you into this lair?
Couldn’t you spare the futile efforts of urban students:
QGIS, coding, and despair?

Oh, bleached follicle
Glistening in the fluorescent light of this
Digital cavern
Like a Silver Spring
But whose head did you once cling?

Perhaps you’ve ventured to
Baltimore, or Berlin with Gabor
Tenants of capitalism - wanting
more, more, more
What a bore…

And I’ve heard your owner snore,
and seen her creativity roar
Watching The Wire like a chore
How does a receipt that long
Come out of a store?

The sun has set, 
it’s a quarter past ten
Amazing Grace
There she goes again

KMC 12/15/2018

03-24-2018

callicoon in five parts

“I’m talking about Canada as a state of mind, as the space you inhabit not just with your body but with your head. It’s that kind of space in which we find ourselves lost.“ 

“If [an immigrant] does wipe away his ethnic origin, there is no new ‘Canadian’ identity ready for him to step into: he is confronted only by a nebulosity, a blank; no ready-made ideology is provided for him.”
- Margaret Atwood, Survival 

ONE: As much as I want to be my own person, I will never inextricably detach myself from being a person of colour. The collective memory of oppression, and the paranoia of being identified as “other” or “lesser” are as visible as the melanin in my skin. At times, I think my most favourable attributes are but those rooted in white hegemony, perpetuating stereotypes - puppet for the puppeteer. We were following Isaac in the other car, heading into town for beers, when we were suddenly pulled over by state police for “rolling through a stop sign.” It was absolutely nerve-wracking, and by instinct, I had my phone camera ready to start filming, but fear completely froze me. 

TWO: Watching Black Panther in a mainly white small town in Callicoon reminded me so much of watching Tarzan while in Ghana. There is a message that is broadcasted through big-box media, but is problematically diluted to retain mainstream appeal. Here’s to those who dreamed of this moment for far too long, to see someone who resembles them on the big screen. 

THREE: I will forever be entranced by the beauty of the night sky. To think that you are projecting your entire existence to the universe to be rendered obsolete by the limitations of the speed of light. What other natural element most strongly fits staring into the past as much as aspiring toward the future? Everything is illuminated!

FOUR: Isaac, my dear friend. How I love and cherish our relationship. It pains me to see you in pain. You have brought me light and warmth when this city has been so frigid toward me, and I forever want to dance this dance with you - to whatever soundtrack, to whatever disdain, to whatever glory. Grace, Claudia - my rocks of which my roots grasp tightly around. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

FIVE: I’ve been trying to keep it cool with a boy that I’ve met. It’s exhilarating, but never the kind of situation I ever thought I would be in. Do I care for him? Of course. But is that ever a good enough reason to stay? Not sure. I’ve been talking to a few friends about my predicament (a complete role reversal), and one of the more poignant things that came out of these conversations is that vulnerability is not justification for reciprocity. It’s tough to wrap my head around. My heart feels raw and numb at times, and I’m often catch myself spiraling toward an unforeseeable oblivion. But I see the night sky on the spots and freckles of his back, and kisses in the morning are sweet and tender. There are times when all I want to do is smoke cigarettes as you ramble on and on and on about comics that I don’t care for at all… I hope I am saved from this uncertain limbo, I hope one day I can yell overtop the high rises of Manhattan that you are mine and I am yours, and it will be right… echoes reverberating down the avenues… a declaration of my inhibition, of my vulnerability…

felt cute, might delete later. a collection of mirror pics, many of which under severe intoxication.

My Life’s Work

a writing exercise - manifesto style. 

excerpts from MOH’KINSS’TIS: SEEKING TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION IN TREATY 7 (2017)

My name is KMC from Treaty 7 of Southern Alberta, the traditional territories of the Siksika, the Piikuni, the Kainai, the Tsuut’ina and the Stoney Nakoda First Nations. My home is situated on land adjacent to where the Bow River meets the Elbow River, the place the Blackfoot traditionally call Moh’kins’tis, which we now call the City of Calgary. As Canada acknowledges its 150th anniversary of Confederation, I validate the pain felt by many as we move toward truth and reconciliation. The legacies of colonialism are long-lasting, as are the histories of intentional assimilation of culture through residential schools.

As a student, researcher, activist, and Canadian, I will make valiant efforts to create ripples, because I don’t believe there is any other option. In the Blackfoot tradition, in the beginning there was water everywhere; nothing else was to be seen. “It will be better to die forever, so that we shall be sorry for each other,” said the Old Woman to the the Old Man. “Well,” said the Old Man, “we will throw a buffalo chip into the water. If it sinks, we will die forever; if it floats, we shall live again.” The buffalo chip evidently sank, but it created ripples, it created waves, waves that reverberated down the river bed, through the streams that navigate the land we call Turtle Island, through the memories of people, and through our actions. It is this hope of the ripple that I centre my work and life’s purpose.

— — — — —

For many years, I lived in this disillusionment of an idyllic Canada – one that celebrated the diversity of its peoples, a multicultural society that allowed for the convergence of identities, and one we were told and taught to be proud of. I am proud to be Canadian, as even to this day, it is the only identity that I passionately connect with. Despite coming from a second-generation immigrant family, I refuse to position myself in a hyphenated identity, as being Canadian is so much more expansive. It allowed me to attach myself to this simplistic notion of Canada as a progressive force in the world, a collective voice that stood for equality, and a leader in social justice and human rights. 2017 served as a poignant year for many Canadians as it marked 150 years since Canada’s formation. However for many, including myself, it served as a time for self-reflection. What does it mean to truly embrace being Canadian? The following piece serves as an outlet for my own self-reflection as I grasp the realities of Canada’s troubling past, lament the enduring pain of Canada’s indigenous peoples, and contemplate future roadways to truth and reconciliation.

I was born-and-raised in Calgary, Alberta, the so-called “Heart of the New West,” a city made known to the world stage for hosting the 1988 Winter Olympics, the infamous Jamaican bobsled team forever documented in Disney’s Cool Runnings. A city that once a year participates in an insensate ten-day festival that brings folks square dancing to the streets in their cowboy boots, I, too, have a pair of red cowboy boots that I have nostalgic memory of shining and buffing before parade day.  Calgary, oil giant of the extractive economy; booming downtown skyline. Burdens of capitalism amongst the Rocky Mountains…And as the water flows from the Rocky Mountains to the foothills… down the prairies,  down the Bow River, to the heart of the city.

To Calgary’s indigenous people, the story of Moh’kinsstis says that before there was the place we call Calgary, the First Peoples were stewards of the land. At the confluence of two rivers, the lifeblood of our city, our cultures converged and our story began.

“We are all treaty people,” was a phrase that was repeated to me when I was younger. I was born-and-raised in Calgary, and it will always be home for me. The significance and weight of that phrase – that identity – did not fully resonate with me until a recent trip to Toronto. I found myself at a conference celebrating youth civic engagement, amongst 20 other leaders from across the nation. We stood in a circle, a symbol so significant to Canada’s indigenous peoples. A circle allows for each person to see one another, to hear one another, and symbolizes and endless, infinite cycle. One of the elders, then, performed a smudge. In this ritual, sage and sweetgrass are burned to purify a person and banish the negativity. The sage is used to release the bad thoughts and emotions like anger or lust and the sweetgrass brings out all the positive energy. The smoke from the fire purifies the people and lets the prayers to be heard by the creator. Sweetgrass is used in prayers all over North America by aboriginals, it is thought to be a sacred plant. The sweet grass is appealing to the good spirits just as it is to us, it is pleasing and attractive. The smoke that is produced from burning the sweetgrass is fanned on the aboriginal people, objects and places to have good luck. The smudge is used to purify and symbolize the carrying of prayers to the Creator. For me, the smudge allowed a spiritual connection to everyone in the room. It was cleansing, and awakening. Every now and then I close my eyes and hear the beating of the hand drum in synchronicity with mine.

Sunshine

“I’m sure there won’t always be sunshine
but there’s this momentary beam of light”

Notion, The Rare Occasions (2016)

“Look out sunshine
It’s the punch line
No one cares you anymore”

Look out Sunshine, The Fratellis (2008)

“Cause morning rolls around
And it’s another day of sun”

Another Day of Sun, La La Land (2016)

“We’re not our skin of grime, we’re not dread bleak dusty imageless locomotives, we’re golden sunflowers inside”

Sunflower Sutra, Allen Ginsberg (1984)

“I know it’s up for me
If you steal my sunshine
Making sure I’m not in too deep
If you steal my sunshine
Keeping versed and on my feet”

Steal my Sunshine, Len (1999)

“I’m walking on sunshine (Wow!)
And don’t it feel good?”

Walking on Sunshine, Katrina & The Waves (1983)

a writing exercise

PFFT

people form friendships together

poetry fuels frenetic tirade

pain feels forever tiring

pacing forward, following time

panic finds furious temper

person feels frozen temperature

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