from
INTELLIGENCE
Note: Construction is well-advanced on massive new
buildings for CSIS (Canadian Security Intelligence Service), and on the much
larger facility (176,500 sq m) for CSEC (Communications Security Establishment
Canada). My less intelligent home is
nearby.
I
don’t know what to use for consolation.
The probes
of
starlight are barely visible and the new illumination just
does
what it’s told. When you get closer it
drains through your ion channels
and
off your fingertips. Like ghosts, except there are no such things
as
ghosts, sweetie. Not back there anyway.
I
don’t know when the emergency power runs out.
The feed
comes
from northern Quebec across the Gatineau River just east
of
town. Enough villages were flooded to keep
us
happy. And if we’re not happy
at
least we’re talking.
I
don’t know if they can see me, but I have to assume
they
can see something. So I have to appear
as nothing.
To
be so resolutely visible that I can disappear.
All
the ghost filaments, those covert fetishes
vanish
like rebar in all that poured-in-place concrete.
I
don’t know what you do with counter-intelligence then.
Eat
it? I mean, seriously, since when does
what is not known
require
so much space? In the deep tunnels
all
the possibilities are accelerated
and
they glow, briefly, when they fall apart.
I
don’t know when the resolution gap becomes a problem.
On
either side of it is clarity like never before.
The
strange death of a british spy, zipped into a duffel bag.
And
on the other, spine dynamics in a living animal.
Try
kissing it. In the middle I mean.
I
don’t know where the missing pages went – the ones
from
Mackenzie King’s diary that talk about Fred Rose, the only MP
convicted
of spying in Canada. Fred Rose, when
they let him out
went
back to Warsaw. Never be seduced by
purity.
Just
like completion, it’s always missing something.
I
don’t know what that is in the high atmospheres, drones
maybe. Wayward drones. A winkle in the high
light. Or sometimes there are biplanes from the
hobby field
down
by the river. It seems like
they
just keep getting closer, don’t they.
I
don’t know her.
It
was a honey trap, but I could see it coming a mile away.
It
came like decay, like efflorescence on the concrete, like
alkalis
adrift on the surfaces. Yes, I am this
wall.
But
who the hell are you?
I
don’t know what caused the sinkhole
but
it came at a convenient time for the intelligence community.
Like
all infrastructure failures, the abstract self falls into a hole
and
the budget goes up. And the city sinks
into
its words.
I
don’t know who sent the de-watering units in
but
it’s a good thing they did. All
imaginative space
needs
a clean-up eventually, after the pipes break and seepage
clogs
the bypass pumps. There are still hoses
folded in the ditches.
They
look like they’ve been wet for a long time.
I
don’t know if we can agree upon what is real
but
the real agrees upon us. Out in the
ditches
and
settling ponds, out past the walls, out among
the
inescapeable lineages, out where the watchers
accumulate,
sometimes it never dries up.
I
don’t know how long you can transmit
before
they lock on. The practical meditations
are
better than the impractical ones but sometimes
they
give you away. And once you’re given
away
well,
you’re given away. You of all people
should know.
I
don’t know why I bother. It’s the end of
September
and
the last tower crane is gone and I missed its departure too.
It
couldn’t have survived another winter anyway.
We
gave it everything we could, every limb
and
every voice. It just did its job
that’s
all.
I
don’t know what comes next. It could be
anywhere
but
it’s not, it’s right here. You can
barely move, the air
is
so dense with wavelengths, the strings, the filaments
fingers
in the mouth. Ah, she says
I
can guess what comes next.
.
Monty Reid lives in Ottawa. His work can be found online at Dusie, elimae, ottawater, and in print in Arc, CV2, Grain, and other magazines. His most recent full-length collection is The Luskville Reductions (Brick). Chapbooks from his Garden series have appeared from above/ground, LaurelReed Books, grey borders, red ceilings, Corrupt, obvious epiphanies and other small publishers. So is the Madness of Humans, a collaboration with photographer Rob MacInnis, was recently on display at the Society for Photographic Arts of Ottawa.
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