The Gig Is Up Mr. Agent Orange

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The Gig Is Up Mr. Agent Orange

The foghorn blares into my foggy noggin.  Clawing at the fingers of sleep, I roll to my belly as the first thoughts surface in droplets of resistance.  I don’t need to inch back the curtain as I already know intimately the wall of pea soup on the other side.  My Maritime heart girds her resentment closer into her belly cave.  

The utter polarity of ocean-side beauty and brilliance is the miasma of gloom in Saint John on mornings when the heavens descend.  The vaporous sulphur steam chugging brume from over the bridge while the refinery films a nebula of doom along Bayside.  All in the name of what?  Tradition?  A tearing, a ripping at the vulnerability of our natural resources? I taste it in the water congealed air, hanging heads of hatred in cancerous resignation.  My head aches.

The rape by big oil men leaves me feeling like I live in a perpetually hostile domestic situ.  However, there are no police to call for help as the gild is steeped high in pockets of synthetic suits just beyond the shields, flack jackets and guns.  These are the men of murky smiles, soft hands, cold hearts and pink, white bodies with course hair like the fresh young piglets on the farm where I grew up.  This is the realm where runts survive with monied coddling by the Bank of Canada.

The league of Monsanto hangmen in ties is fading in favour of durable hemp clothing and pitchforks. The sickening concert of destruction is kneeling into it’s final tear stained crescendo.  It’s just not sustainable.  The whole system has sprung leaks from its exfoliated ethics on the tide of a river drenched in glyphosate.  The gig is up Mr. Agent Orange!  The white sage is lit and you’re being smoked out!

You can take your cancers dripping the dirge of your intent and steal away like Nazi wolves in your private jets.  All is converging into your suppressive vaccine steeped agenda dripping with mercurial oil from leaking pipelines and fracking shale lines trickling poison chemical water to the ocean of my restored heart; all in the name of a worn out fiat currency.  The time has come “Little Man.”*

I see you run for yet another Starbucks coffee full of GMO pasteurized milk from the lymphatic pus of animals kept inside a milking saloon, ankle deep in their own excrement, their infected utters doused once again in antibiotics.  You’re just so full of pitiable stop-gap measures!  Is this the glory of humanity that you wring every dollar from?  How do you possibly sleep at night on your synthetic mattresses with your cold trophies beside you?  Your maniacal manacles pinioned to the marble halls of your loveless marriage because you sold her to China.

I pick up the feather of the Raven and hold it, turn it in the wind, the fringe tightly woven organically, fanning the sage in the abalone shell.  Where are my people?  I stand alone, as always, deliciously tarnished, but healthy in body, mind, and soul. The protective She-Bear in me ready to construct the walls of her off-grid sun and wind-breathing mini-fortress.  It is August and I’m standing in 5 foot tall stalks of industrial hemp.  Every single acre will feed 12 of you piglets for a year, the runts for two, without an ounce sprayed from your noxious hose of pesticides.

The sun burns off the fog.  It’s mid-day, now, on the east coast of Canada.  I will spend the afternoon constructing the final phase of my solar-run outdoor shower to cleanse away the last of the city’s grime from my soul.  The raven caws raw into the murderously blue sky as I pour another glass of raw goat’s milk while snacking on fresh shucked peas from my permie garden.  The buzz of rejuvenating bees sweet on the scent of white clover mixed with something else … ah … what is it?  Ah, yes, the culmination of one Canadian woman’s salvation.

Allyson McQuinn

August 12th, 2015


*”Listen Little Man” by Wilhelm Reich (