sHell poem

i hate to think of the devastation a toxic tar pipe in british columbia will mean
hard not to think on these things, it's harder too when you think these things are inevitable,
a way of life, even though they hurt everything
and only benefit a few, whose money may outlast oil,
and then no one.
i think of when i lived on gabriola island, where
the salish barely held on even then, and before,
when malcolm lowry lived there, squatting in a fisherman's shack,
with a view of the -HELL sign on the neighboring island,
sign of Shell with burnt out S.
i think his shack in flames
with the manuscript of under the volcano
consigned to hell.