Robert Banks Foster ≈ A VISION OF HELL

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JAZZ FESTIVAL WEEKEND IN KASLO, A VISION OF HELL

“With Greed . . .”, for Ezra Pound

1
On and off On and off On and off
On and off streets fat fat fat crowds flow.
We are all tourists here.
Who are we? Where is here?
It’s not the fat
It’s not fat per se that flows flows flows flows people like globules.
It’s not fat
limp rolls of shuffling young
fathers parading prosperity
bulging belts
mothers ballooning
before behind.
It’s not fat fat fat faced kids
or pets
nations of Alsatians nations
oodles of poodles oodles of poodles oodles of poodles
presenting perfectly together perfectly.
It’s not
ALBERTA ENVIRONMENTAL REFUGEES
condos raping hills.
It’s us
our fat legs spread wide spread wide in the streets
open for business
pimping lakes pimping rivers pimping mountains
pimping clear air
We did not think fat had overcome so many
The bodies of our mountains for sale
The bodies of our mountains cheap .
You have heard “all flesh is grass.”
Dying forests are pubic hair.
Dying forests are pubic hair.

2
We are all tourists here.
Tourists are Us! Here is here!
We come for jazz, we pay for jazz.
The affront on Front Street is after Jazz
no dancing happens here.

3
We did not think fat had undone so many, so many—
us in our houses, us flowing fat in up and down streets
it’s not the shapelessness we are
in motion with each weary step
no shape no form no line no function
It’s the perfect blandness that we reek reek reek.
We come to love and then destroy
the very things we say we love
love love
One cannot tell the tourist from
the living dead.
One cannot tell the living dead.
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Footnote:
When asked about the Canto that begins, With Usura . . . Pound said, “Now I would use the
word Greed.”

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