there’s a path in The Forks where we stumbled on a humble little man dressed in a loincloth and armed with a walking stick a strange sight in Winnipeg though less strange if we had stumbled on him in wintertime we would have figured the cold froze him solid instead of the rabid pack of corporate sponsors who encased his memory in bronze behind him a whorled latticework of steel and stone sprouting comic book crystals to the sky and the hope that with Jor-El’s wisdom and with Kal-El’s strength some good might come from these cranes and lifts and banging and clanging and barcodes to an official website of mission statements corporate governance board of directors partners of friends of already I can taste the foie gras society dinner fund raisers and feel the chokehold of black ties around the neck stuck on top of the structure a metal something to pierce the sky a spire or a penis hard to tell from down here where little people walk on the ground I wave good-bye to the frozen little man wander down to the river a grocery cart toppled into the water blankets stashed in the shrubs by the bank auto-racks trundling across the trestle spray-painted bubble letters delivering messages from the planet Krypton which is dead just like Ghandi just like Jor-El and just like most things you find stuffed and mounted in museums
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