Love
What is love like?
Well...
Love is like Wii Boxing;
When the Wiimote
Doesn't respond.
Where no matter how hard you try
No matter your tenacity
The game
Has a mind
Of its own.
You might try to punch
And have the game
Throw a block
You might try to dodge
As the game does
...nothing
Or sometimes you'll dodge
And in shock and delight
Find yourself throwing
The knockout blow.
Mystery
The absolute fucking mystery
That is Wii Boxing;
And love.
White clouds spirit through the overcast skies, like wild horses racing between downtown towers. I cycle up these streets like liquid, across the teeming rivers, and through heady trees over which the canvas of the sky paints an dark asphalt smear. The neighbourhood forests seethe in exotic smells, all freshly washed and untainted by automobiles. My gears grind out the rhythm of the rain as I ride the storm's scent like a water god of old, and as dry as driftwood I remain.
Somewhere in the vastness of the Dominion, but nowhere near Rupert's Land, is the hero we all admire. That stalwart figure, though a little lazy and unreliable, who travels around on his rocket powered scooter with a satchel topped with tricks. There he goes, the hero of the Dominion of Canada, clad in full body underwear, and a red and white knit wool scarf. Salute him we do; that transient jackass who can do his weight in drugs! He is our one and only, our Captain Canuck!
And he is miserable in the rain pouring down like icy sheets. The mist, the precipitation, 矢っ張り Vaamsterdam. Past that clock that spews steam on the hour, and past the brewery full of beer. The totem poles watch him solemnly race up the streets, neither entirely approving, nor entirely condemning. He is a man on a mission, driving himself forward through the wind and the torrents. Through the valleys of glass and between the Victorian houses. Watch him stop square on a dime, gingerly parking his scooter between two Beemers. His anti-theft locks heavy; each one so secure you might think he was parking in Winterburg. Everyone cheer; he's finally made it!
Watch him walk! Somewhere between a strut and a swagger; his mousy beard unshaven since he last left T-dot. Unkempt and dishevelled is his appearance, and how the girls swoon! Fainting like dominoes as he saunters past them; his rugged boots clomping heavily enough to be heard in their unconscious heads. Such a character is he. So full of indifferent blasé. You can't help but hate and admire him. If only the gate guard was the same.
"If you don't have a ticket, I can't let you in."
"Can I bribe you with grass? I have Arabian Djinn."
The guard shakes his head firmly: NO! But answers on the sly, "I think a deal can be made for a mickey of rye..."
Shock! The Captain is speechless. He's dealt like this for years, but for legal goods only!?! It's so mundane! It's so normal!! Can he make a deal hat's this ordinary? He digs in his satchel, through the bitch, through the smack, past the pot and the meth, the peyote and dust. Deeper he reaches, to elbow, to shoulder. We must gawk in wonder at the marvellous satchel of Captain Canuck! A gift from his friends in the LXP. Deeper he dives, almost in to his waist. Through the X and the ketamine, the morphine and codeine, and there in the bottom is... That southern anthem is sung, Sarah Slean's voice abounds. The captain surfaces at last with a mickey in hand.
"Here, take and have fun."
"Your seats in F-31." The gate guard commands.
Through the arena he rushes, his time running short. His feet falling in time to the sound of his own National Psalm. It's a wonder how those thick wooly socks don't chafe inside those big heavy boots! Never the matter, he is Captain Canuck and this is life and death. His rain soaked clothing freezes as he enters the Ice Gardens, a prototype Canadian hero, armoured in ice! And quickly to his seat just before the face off, our hero moves efficiently into position. Huzzahs are in order! Captain Canuck has made it to yet another hockey game.
