Athabasca: Oil Sands Poetry
Contents
Athabasca
Tree Bones
Petropolis
The Rape of the Earth
Pebble Beach
Out of the Salt
War Machine
Death by Oil
The Global Ghost
Unbolted Love
K'ai Taile Dene
Introduction:
This brief collection of Oil Sands Poetry was written while I was employed on the Athabasca Oil Sands Project in Northern Alberta. I needed a job, the door was open and the money was good. It was hard being away from family and friends for so long but the week off every month and the cash to enjoy my time off made it worthwhile.
When I stepped off the plane it was minus 50 degrees. The words "cold" or "freezing" don't do justice: a new word needs to be invented, maybe combining excruciating and frozen. (exfroziating?) I broke out into a strange red rash over my whole body that last my entire first two weeks on site. I couldn't get warm, no matter how many layers I put on and at night a shivered under the blankets. After a couple turns up there I got used to it. Eventually minus 15 was a nice warm day.
My first trip onto the new Kearl Lake refinery occurred in the dead of night. It is difficult to describe the feeling I experienced driving through the tank farm, extraction and froth areas that evening. All the workers had gone home, the site was deserted and lit up with floodlights like some haunted sports arena from a sci-fi movie.
The pipes and vats, overhead racks and convoluted metal tubing made me think of Mordor or the dark satanic mills of William Blake. All the humanity and compassion seemed to be sucked out of the air by the howling arctic winds that blew snow and dust over the roadways: how could man envision and design such a place?
The destruction of the environment is profound. First the forest is removed. Then, 60 feet of topsoil are dug up by the giant earth machines. Under that lies the black tar sands that the oil companies covet to produce bitumen. Billions and billions of dollars are sunk into developing the industry. One major oil company is rumored to have invested $20 billion in 3 years and they still have not extracted any of the raw crude oil yet.
It seems utterly backwards to power the plants by using clean natural gas in order to make dirty bitumen. And despite the enormous expense, the oil giants still make money. It doesn't really matter what the oil costs because our global industrial complex is powered by oil - we are completely dependent on it.
That probably makes me and everyone else that works up there hypocrites. Unfortunately, we are all part of the system: we drive cars and heat our homes; we use the plastic products produced by petroleum daily; we drive on roads made of asphalt to get to our corporate jobs where we work to maintain and further the goals and aspirations of wealthy, powerful men who seem to have no concern for us, our environment or the future of our planet.
And for this, we take our dearly-earned paychecks and try to build a better life. We feed our kids and give them an education in the hopes that the world we hand over to them will be better than the one that was handed over to us by our parents and grandparents. Will the cycle continues until all the oil is gone, and the forests destroyed and the Earth is completed plundered of all its natural resources?
The alarming reality is that there is no Plan B; our national leaders have little thought of the next 100 or 500 years. Oil is just part of the system we live under here on Earth; our leaders appear to function with the sole purpose of staying in power and not for the betterment of our world as a whole, regardless of their rhetoric and overtures of philanthropy and goodwill.
However, there are people who care about our planet and the life it contains: we can soldier on, hopeful and confident that this empire of materialism can be overcome by the love and respect of all living things and we can, in time, usher in a new era of freedom and brotherhood on our ailing planet, third from the Sun.
When all the trees have been cut don,
When all the animals have been hunted,
When all the waters are polluted.
When all the air is unsafe to breathe
Only then will you know...
You cannot eat money
-- Cree Prophecy
Athabasca
Snake the frozen iron
Industrial pit of pipe,
And flood the black light;
Rake the gravel tar
And froth and seethe
My chemical rude septic men.
The pitiless machine shovel
Kills
The cruel skill
Of the skull craning crew of men;
Who muzzle their tame rage
On the poor broken land.
Crack of timber torment,
The dark forest pine
And rape the fell branch flesh;
The frozen smash
Of brush piled to burn.
Who mauled
The limping scowl of wolf
And lame groaning
Branch of metal pain?
Nuzzle the fox prowl, and lynx
Mourn
The pine scalped earth.
The dark batch of black ooze
Guzzles the spent soil;
And sift
The witch miners who
Agitate the vats:
For signs, ciphers, codes and a name.
The scattered
file workers ant into the sculpted beast;
And steel the still terror
Of archaic cement craft;
Mind of disdain
Who designs and sleeps.
My dust and dreaded
Stout steel
Belted men, bolted servants
Of barrels
And barren plague
Of empty, useless oil.
O the ice hole
Of howling snow;
The leeching tears
Soil the frozen soul
Of the gaveled men
Who weep for the poor pagan machine.
Their fat corporate
Scorn
Spits the smug accounts;
Bleeding the droll beast.
And the slotted
Blame boys fell silently lost
From the cold winter sky.
Tree Bones
Thin stacks of tree bones
Piled forest corpse, crippled
Branch and birch,
Poplar, pine and skinny
Bark arms;
Clutch at the bitter sun, sucking
Breath of wind blown
And northern squall bites
The pale suburban skin.
To punish the sharp-tailed grouse
And agonize the grey fox,
The stolen zoo.
Manacles of metal
Machines and diesel smoke scalds
The lunching crew
Their goggles, gloves and hats;
Stoke the blunt face,
And forge the blank stare.
This pious belly of pipe
Spews
The black bile of sanctimonious oil;
Down the gullet
Of the thick human breast;
Swallowed be the muck
Hallowed be the earth.
The bleak tundra soil churned
And squeezed out the last sour drop.
Petropolis
Cold tube steel
and smooth turbine seams,
the chrome bell pipes laid
in precision racks of
smelted gleam.
The fatal smile
mirrored concrete,
plastic and glass.
Pristine rows
and patient coffin beams,
fitted metal bolts
and titanium skull domes;
the hum and power
and bold towers. Slant
stern watchful iron
and cool electric tones.
To crush the human infraction
and break the supple will;
The safety police
write the soft code
into the brave nerve.
The hardwired heart burnt;
the freed man cuffed
and pour the boiled fresh moulds.
Dare to bow
before altar’s science
or crave the secular god;
rule the twisted optic
cellular eye.
The dogs of banks and oilmen
bunkering the pit
of stocks.
Prying the bauxite floor;
up heaves the plates
and the hollowed Earth gives no more.
They suck the oil and gas coin
between jaded teeth,
while blind, sour men wipe
bland eyes,
and serve the global beast.
O my broken brothers,
fret not the cult of banks,
nor soothe the crooked oil.
Rain down the fat bear;
and love the brother deer,
the frozen sun severed stones.
My brothers, sisters, mothers and sons.
The Rape of the Earth
My boys are blank, bitching
at the man, belching
their fat peptic rant;
cowing to the suited foe
and push the bully back.
They lawyer up and bend
their will to the god bosses
who bribe
their pride into the bank.
The boys blame the sacred drone
when the scalding bosses vent;
and scold the crowing boy,
and break his crowing heart;
His derision is a curse
festered balloon
that pops the business bubble
and bursts the stained purse.
And here we are
the poor working tramps,
paid to brave the damp,
and turn the slumping clods.
We sink our ankles in the mud
and scrape the thaw from urban boots.
Milking the soil
from the oil soaked breast
and play partner to the rape of forest earth.
We hold her down while roughnecks drill
and pale oilmen
prod her damp dirt crotch;
The hydro crackers pour
their toxic brew;
while the fracking crew
clogs her frozen throat
and force their bits
into her clanking screws.
Pebble Beach
The lark sun kissed its jewels
and the ice crystals
sparkled white.
Old black raven, fat as a chicken, waddles
over the crunching snow,
past the orange propane tank
and the blue generator.
The underfed pines
choked by diesel
burnt and amber red;
they shadow over
the long tin trailers
that rattle in the slicing wind.
Beyond the fence
a low hump of dirt
hides the grunting machine,
digging up its hole
piling up its dirt;
arguing with the rock
all the cold black night.
I sit by the window
at peace with the ice
and the snow
that killed the lynx,
that ate the slain hare.
And the sun is cruel by day
pushing back the night.
Over by the fence
that squares around the camp:
the footprints
in the pure white snow,
crows watch and wait
for the dinner scraps
of the silent young men;
Who troop and stamp
and cash their cheques;
bag their lunch
and bundle back
to camp;
to sleep and dream
of warm cities on the coast.
And I, the author of dissent
poke at the soft entrails,
and peck at the meaning
of the fox smacked
by truck;
and ravens, fat as chickens,
tear and gorge the skin off its back.
Out of the Salt
Out of the salt debris
and dead worm leaf,
stone plate and crushed tectonic;
carbonic plants
and burnt diamond coal
of rust, shale blast.
By the ton pressed march of ages
the black fire and cup of mud
soothed and seeped the crank heart
of the oil crazed men.
Who craved the dark muck
and slaved the dank mud?
And braved the damn boys.
Who felled the dumb trees
and killed the wood fox?
And caved the blank earth.
Who tossed the brown mulch
and bled the arctic dirt?
And killed the forest joy.
Who’s to blame
but banks and ties,
suits and jets flown
over the warm black soil
and accounting men with oak desks
and mercedes leather.
Trees cut to feed faxes
and taxes saved to slaughter the Earth.
Who rocked the stone boat
and tricked the slave heart?
And gassed the fuel tank.
Who bought the big screen
and fed the tame lies?
And voted the crooked men.
Who played the same game
and took the cheat card?
And knifed the blame beast.
Then who’s to blame,
but the corporate heart.
That takes the skin and eats the cake;
pulls the pin and bombs the cow.
and licks the crafted words;
And busts the tank and shapes the news,
To cut the pages and kill the god:
And then waddle off to work,
worthless hours wasted.
The lords over all the Earth.
The lords over all the Earth.
War Machine
Disease of death
and chronic skull bones of lurching tank;
bucket of bolt
and tomb;
crash and crush the wood stick huts
and brick bungalows
strewn along the low Afghan hills.
The general grips the wheel
and folds the white papers in his fat fumbled hands.
Blank bankers plot and pay the honed agents
who forge the perfect maps
and hack the perfect drones;
Fly the night zones,
and bomb the stone towns.
Blunt clerks cook the copy
and stew the news;
enhance the photos
and spin the stale doctored line;
tape the fake sky and shape the global mind;
and kiss the global lips,
and crush the perfect words.
Oilmen groan and stretch,
plug in the pipe
and blow the skank fuel
down the cold pipeline;
The breasted suits confer and gas up
The blast machine;
and scroll the verse and kiss the ring.
A dole lank youth
packs his gear and chisels a bible verse
into the steel gun;
bolts the bang gun,
and twists the throat grenade.
And feeds the dumb machine that drains the city's blood.
Bankers count the famous dough
and lick the sweet coin;
puff up the iconic dream and spin.
The patron scrolls the next slide
and cues the graph;
while poker-face men
drive their smooth cars into the gated house.
An ancient tribe
opens its holy book and chants a holy verse:
mumbling nations shudder and fear
the mortal death;
while sightless men sail white yachts
under a cold moon in the dead of night.
Death by Oil
My back broken whale
the shark fin slaughter,
the dying soup of sea.
Oceans poisoned,
fish schools floated;
the sunless bottomless coral reef.
The ocean soaked oxygen bones
washed and salted
dried plastic
and smooth oil slick;
breached by the oil drillers
who lift the plate and strain the crude.
Round Earth has no joy or pain
only stained, boned cloudpour
dust deviled wild beast,
tusk trader
and rhino hide skinners
flail the mute beasts.
This poem with all my might
I pray the least fish,
the slain mink;
this fur and feet father
that hoof and claw brother
this silent spoken prayer.
And drain the lake empty
dead the trout river
stale the air filter;
shred the ozone layer
melt the ice desert
and empty the oceans forever.
Kill the tame beast
corral the cow and pig
bless the mute dog
pump the dread drug
break the gene code
and splice the love kiss.
The grass is burnt brown
the waves and barren salt
fish are long gone;
my skies are burnt black
my sun is glaring red;
my moon is chained to an ebbing post.
Who will save it then?
when saving is at an end
the gems are all lost
the copper blown away
the oil burned and gone
the soil turned to dust.
Who will quench my thirst?
says the spent Earth.
How will the rains return
when the lakes are bone dry?
when the rivers run with blood
by the human's lust for death.
When the forests die and the birds sing no more.
The Global Ghost
I
My global ghost of masses writhe,
Teeming over, boils the blood and blind
Weeping wail of human race;
The viral spread of bleating host
Who hacked the bloated beached whale.
The global ghost drank water in its bed
And madmen piled the swollen heap of lies;
Made the sacred sign and raised the glass,
To toast the nuclear oil-soaked tribe:
Who spit their teeth into the salting pool;
And peeled the skin off the tattooed girls
Who slaved and raped the house of sex;
Then broke the boys at the firing range,
Slaughtered the beast and burnt the flag;
And slowly killed the poor lame voodoo state.
II
O my poor aching world
Cold, your blood stained tears of love
Wash the salt into the earth;
And pour, pour, pour the sweet honey lips
Into the slinking pile of rotting wires.
All the dead germ wars wasted
And microwave minds melted;
By screens and cells and whining wires
That lit the veins and dropped the bombs;
And burst the blood of the blond fragrant men.
When the cities melt into a lake
Of lava burning tongues and tribes;
Tormented hands of scalded war
Milk and butcher sacred cows;
And the church of mud in the oven dries.
III
Iron and clay sons of faith;
Who rocked the baby until she sang;
A broken tune of sacred love
And all the children lost their homes,
Until all was left was child and bone.
And crushed the rock until it bled
And all the fathers died of stone;
All the children reaped the earth
And gave to it a new name and birth.
So said he who wrote the words.
So said he who wrote the words.
Unbolted Love
I
In the bitter and bland pill of hours
when blood is dust.
In the dirt of the dried sun-festering day;
the hung clouds pile on
the spun turning metal Earth.
Singing the mortal tune
my crew of best and worst men
sing the Hi-Ho of plodding work.
The leeching hours burn
the long list of stale afternoons.
The droning hello and goodbye
of my thumping henchmen
lead the charge;
and the craning girls cackle
and howl the comedy of crack and ale.
II
Who am I to pinch the hours
of the moaning crew;
Or punish the feeble mop who wipes the loo?
Who avoids the sleeping soul
or rids the muck from under his nail?
And ignore the great rushing blast
that blows up against their wooden brains?
Their bland juice sucks the bleach
from my thin blood;and relentless
they pile on the dull routine
of pipes and clocks and bolts and clocks
and faxes and memos of meetings of men.
Their deep soul of mundane
rips the joy from my aching back.
III
I long to be free
To kiss the carpet
and feel the sun's layers sift
across my naked spine.
Or languid on the beach,
brave the swooping waves
and sink the unbolted love into my breathing pores.
But oh, these tired tunes
squeeze the last juice from my daydreams;
and force the same unthinking boys
to hack and stab at the warming truth.
The punish of men is laid upon me
like the stones on the temple floor,
they tread the pavement underfoot
and rid the world of idyllic youth.
K'ai Taile Dene
(people of the land of the willow)
this land is our soul,
said the sawfly who sat and sifted the goldenrod
and yellow sweet clover,
buckbrush
and tussock sedge.
this is my body laughed the brook trout
and the wood bison nodded to the beaver,
squirrel, porcupine and vole.
we are so close to the land,
said the Chippewa brother
while the carpenter ant marched
and the black blister beetle scratched his back
crawling up the ice pruned black spruce.
partridgeberry are my food
munched the black bear
and the trembling aspen sighed.
when you see
this mother earth, said the Cree mother,
where there are reeds one after another
keeping alive our connection,
our hunters, trappers, fishers and elders…
migrate to this abundance
of insects, bogs and lakes,
the cave cricket chirped.
pass it along to the next generation:
the earth and
all creatures that live on it are a gift from
the Creator,
said the sweet bee to the digger bee:
and the paper birch swayed in the wind.
Now available on Amazon