"canola" poems
GMO foods punch holes in cells
permeate the gut, creating gaps in guts
Leading to food floating in bloodstreams, rivers of pain
Food allergies, ulcers, IBS .... these are the milder troubles
I won't speak of IBD, Cancer and Crohns disease
Babies born now allergic to foods, children allergic more than ever
They said, though the BT injected crops killed bugs, bursting their bellies
that they were still safe for humans....They were wrong!
Now these GMO crops are causing a myriad of gastro problems in people!
Food crops are now Roundup ready in the
Killing Fields.
Videos to watch:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=FS72J9bDvPM&feature;=relmfu
www.youtube.com/watch?v=6D3TUk-XX1o&feature;=relmfu
TOP FOODS TO AVOID (unless labeled organic)
Corn
Soy
Potatoes
Canola, Cottonseed Oils
Sugar, fructose, corn syrup
Dairy - except organic
Tomatoes - except organic
Papaya/Hawaiian
Helpful links:
www.naturalnews.com/035734_GMOs_foods_dangers.html
http://truefoodnow.org/
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 10:39 PM UTC
sail boats
and oceans
and really anything that floats and carries a person
far away
in a big body of water
I don’t think I have to say why
it’s obvious
I’m sure everyone has a thing for sail boats
and oceans
I like busses too
I seem to get really impatient on them, and I like that a lot
because I know I can’t do anything about it
it’s a game of
Will I Go Crazy Or Will I Have A Snooze?
I like being stuck between being stuck and being unstuck
one day I want to sit on a bus for 24 hours and see what happens
(I will be doing a lot of that in the month of October)
I’ll bring books, my iPod and movies to watch on my laptop
but I’ll probably just stare out the window hours on end
tall buildings will turn into blurry trees and blurry trees
will turn into pixilated neon canola crops
and there’ll be cows and ponies and one long road
to Montreal
then Toronto
then who the **** knows where because I am already dreading
going home after the trip
even though I haven’t left for the trip yet
it’s months to come
I have a thing for finding a new home
everywhere I go
but I never find one
I like the process of looking for a really long time
then giving up from discouragement and sad feelings of
abandonment stemmed from my childhood daddy issues
I’m pretty sure everyone has daddy-abandonment issues
I have a thing for assuming every one has the same problems
that I do
but it turns out that there are loads of girls that like to eat
lots
and don’t feel ashamed of the extra scoop of
double fudge ice cream
and there are teenagers that get along with their fathers
and look up to them
they go out for lunches and joke about dates and fix cars
and tell their little girls they’ll always be their little girls
and go on awkward shopping sprees and barbecue
but everyone has a thing for sail boats and water
we all want to escape
our eating disorder and drinking problem
a skinny body or a bulky body
bad grades and perfectionism
the people pleasing pushovers
fathers and mothers and old european traditions
family dinners that go perfectly and are so boring because of it
the fragility of feeling unique
the arrogance of feeling unique
the lack of faith in ourselves
being alone
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
its all franchises
as far as you might see
burger joints, taco houses, and pizza parlors
dot the horizon
the whole lot
greasier than the pan
than the canola oil, a whole can of pam
its warehouse-sized stores
full of disgruntled
shuffling cheap trash
package to shelf
packaged for the shelf
in anticipation to sit
listen a while
under the low murmur
of the machine humming
you can hear ma n pop wailin'
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 8:43 PM UTC
To the distances I could not go for you
I will say a thing or two
Maybe you will find in the vast field of canola
The same sun kissed reasons
For leaving behind the love of all seasons
To tremble in the wake of one
To the white noise we befriended
You hand-in-hand with silence
Wear the stars like midnight bloom
The sun avoids our encounters
And we become the founders
Of bordered misunderstandings
Blooming flowers, spring's demise,
Winter creeps inside your eyes
I would have left everything behind
If it weren't for this unsettled mind
But these vast fields of distances grow
Through the skies and soil above and below
And I, drowning in dreams of tomorrow,
Have lost the map I was meant to follow
Tell those distances I have yet to know
That I'm still learning how to let go
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 5:27 PM UTC
My head is ticking like a time bomb.
I rub the back of my hand with my cold sweaty palm.
Silently whimpering, in pain, for my mom,
I kindly ask her to bring a canola oil embalm.
As I rub the embalm at the time bomb,
I can hear a gentle soft psalm.
My life fades away as if it were nothing more than a sitcom.
I perceive my conscious escaping me, but I surprisingly feel calm.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
Arctic air ,
a Canadian export,
not ledgered in any book of trade,
replaced hunger as the body's sole attention.
There will be time for additional Canadian exports:
wheat, canola, eggs, bacon, beans, potatoes...
But the temperature plunge
routed the homeless last night
from their million dollar bridge encampments,
scattering their shanty collective,
into a forced survival march to heated shelters.
"Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord.
Come in my children.
God loves you."
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
8/17/2014
Her name was Joy Jenny Jeffers,
known only really as Jenny.
I loved her for the way she’d sometimes
sit up in bed at four twenty three am,
the linen bunched all around her naked
knees,
and she’d proudly and dully proclaim
to her imaginary friend
perched on the wall:
“Frankly, Frankie,
I don’t
think this
relationship
is going
anywhere”
I’d laugh, call her a doll
“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”
with a slap, call me Jenny,
she’d plop back in the bed.
(This all happened
in the dark,
don't you remember..?)
I loved her for the way she would
put wildflower honey
in her black coffee
and one time, hungover, she poured in
canola oil,
which she drank anyways,
Which would prompt a swift
“Oh Joy Jenny Jeffers,
I love you too much,”
as i drank my St. John’s tea
laced with Bacardi.
I loved her for the way she hated
animals and music,
for the way she burned off a strand of
hair when curling it,
for the way she blinked when an eyelash brushed up against her iris.
I loved her for the way she said Frankly, Frankie, and I loved her the very same
when she started preforming old tricks
in front of new patrons,
when Frankly Frankie became
Frankly Johnnie or Frankly Helen,
I loved her all the same,
And in this i realised i didn’t love Joy Jenny Jeffers,
but I loved the way a certain woman
got an eyelash out of her way,
fixed her earrings when they caught,
comforted sickly children halfheartedly,
and I loved the way a woman went about waking up at exactly four twenty three am every night or morning to say
"Frankly,
Frankie,
I don’t think this relationship
is going
anywhere.”
With the linen
all around
her knees.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
To California:
You are a land of gold and opportunity
the manifest destiny grasped
the cradle of many too-distant friends.
To Ohio:
You are halfway across the country
the destination of a poignantly-missed friend
the cradle of a new beginning for her
the end of our era.
To Oregon:
Rivers between us, pumping blue blood to the sea
in you, I stumbled from girl into woman
in you, I woke up and stood up, and
made the first memories I treasure.
To Canada:
You are my parent as much as America
a cleaner, calmer shadow of your sister
more vast than words can encapsulate,
an undiscovered prairie of 100-person towns
beautiful and insulated, insects drowning in amber.
Oil pumps in canola fields
twisted pines from the Dark Ages
atop mountains green with August snowmelt
impossibly broad skies and midnight suns
dancing under the northern lights in my cousin's wedding.
You gave me a
plastic bag with two passports, cracking open
the world.
To Washington:
You are the ever-green land
vibrant and beautiful in my memory and before my eyes
the thrumming of Seattle music,
the steam of fresh coffee on perfect grey skies
warm sweatshirts and jeans that fit just right
copper hair curling perfectly on my shoulders
poetry reading in cafe basements
excitement at discovering my voice.
You are the cradle of my closest friends
my bitterest regrets sweetening my
hang-over coffee.
You were my first start
and every new beginning after that.
You were my first home
and you will be my last.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:33 PM UTC
*Mimosa elders obscure the pink Azalea hillsides , timid Catbirds performing at behest of daybreak , vociferous followers of humid June traipse glistening Canola fields , swirling secrets of country brooks revealed in man-made clearings , Robin mothers boast of endearing Summer
privilege , of Jasmine , Sugar Pine , Cattail tranquil late morning backdrops with whispering Hill Country breezes* ......
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC
I set my sight far on China
abacus counting; without confusion
But they're mostly short sighted
and that's no delusion
Heard about the Hong Kong march
but didn't recall till I'd seen what I saw
So I did what I did, now I understood
what I could, with Confucius
Never take a pen to a pig
nor your litter to the swine
for one, H one N one
Can I get myself the Canadian kind?
Import... extort, not for the canola
nor the coals down under
If I'm selling what I stole from selling Inuit
like the forty thieves and Ali's plunder
How many men can stand as tall
without writing Graffiti on the Great Wall
that they built, that's psychopathic
for the people, by the people, the Great Republic
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 2:20 AM UTC
I love the way you put your stupid
hipster glasses on the collar of your
band t-shirts to fix your straight yet
messy brown hair that you haven't
washed in a week with a thick black
hair tie that you hate to wear on your
wrist when you don't need it because
it's so bulky so you put it in your front
pocket next to two strips of emergency
gum and a can of altiods which you
finish in a day and replace at night
I love when you air guitar in the
middle of Froyo Joe's most likely to a
song on The Front Bottoms CD you're
playing on your Walkman you got at
that one thrift store and everyone
stares at you then stares at me staring
at you, smiling and laughing so much.
And I love how you bow in the most
exaggerated way that anyone could
ever possibly bow because you air
guitared so impressively (you should
definitely start yourself a band) that
the unexpecting audience applauded
you for that marvelous performance
which definitely made their evening
And I love the way you look at me in
the train car when you're dragging me
to the next town because you finally
have enough money to go to the little
store that has the same name as that
one author you love and buy the
vintage coat that smells like moths and
depression because you want to wear
it and feel like a 1923 troubled rich
woman during an early midlife crisis.
I love when you tell me the things you
love about me at 3 a.m. in this diner
after you read to me that God-awful
poem about a woman who hates
shampoo and listens to blue grass
during all her classes and we're sitting
in this diner where all the food tastes
horribly like canola oil and salt and
I am immensely in love with you
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 7:29 PM UTC
Oak trees sway in breeze
Red dirt driveway curving dividing the two
Canola blankets fields in yellow
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
I scrolled through my camera roll. Here’s a photo from five years ago, it’s still fresh in the mind. In it were canola fields and a glittering wind. I could still feel the breeze lingering on my fingertips. It was me and a camera I no longer own, my dad, who, in his impatience, still drove me out to a field, outside city lines, so that I could take a photo of the sunset, for a class. There are some simple things, simple pictures. No person, or place of any significance, but they sit on you, right on your chest. They weigh heavy. I wonder why. Background set. Now I will look and feel the touch of yesterday. Swallowing every color in the picture and letting its sounds ring in my ear. I wonder why. No person or place of significance, but it sits on me, right on my chest.
Mar 1, 2025
Mar 1, 2025 at 12:32 PM UTC
Much thought, that I've invested
into the disposal of my fleshy, mangled hull.
Exquisite cadaver, worn and tested,
infested with maggots, fattening themselves
on marrow, digging through my skull.
Take your pick upon my passing,
most I've shared my plans with.
All you who know what to do,
though it might be a minute.
Those plans were made in dire times,
expectant of winter's end in a blink.
Strap my sack of bloated meat to
a float, equipped with fireworks and gunpowder.
Light the fuse, send me to sea, make it rain.
Feed the fish, marvel at macabre shower
of total annihilation and colors of
bliss, rainbows and proud refuge in
endless abstract nothing.
Grind my bones into dust, feed the earth,
grow your plants and inhale my essence.
Satiate your curiosity, save a finger,
fry it in canola oil and do tell
what I taste like
once you're down here with me.
Pick a painting on my skin,
it's yours for the taking.
Frame it, jar it, keep me around.
For the curious occasion that
I rise from the ground
and observe some patches missing.
Stuff me with wool, embalm my cadaver,
set me up in grizzly stance.
Whatever you do, don't mourn me.
I've seen the nature of this world,
enough for seven lifetimes.
Mourn the fact that
we lost one more degenerate
but don't mourn me out of love.
If you feel so inclined then
mourn me out of spite
and take a clue from Thomas,
same as I decided
to rage and not give in.
My plans have changed, I'd
like to stay around. But
should the void ever find me,
read this poem out
and take your pick
upon my passing.
Make my exit
strange, massive, morbid
and wonderfully loud.
Jul 27, 2025
Jul 27, 2025 at 12:51 PM UTC