From The Alphabet Game: A bpNichol Reader, published by Coach House Books in 2007; originally in Craft Dinner (Aya Press) and reprinted with permission from the estate of bpNichol. FRIDAYlouis riel liked back bacon & eggs easyover   nothing’s as easy as it seems tho   when the waitress cracked the eggs open louis came to his guns blazing   like dissolution like the fingers of his hand coming apart as he squeezed the trigger        this made breakfast the most difficult meal of the day   lunch was simpler   two poached eggs & toast with a mug of coffee   he never ate supper never ate after four in the afternoon spent his time planning freedom the triumph of the metis over the whitemanSATURDAYlouis felt depressed   when he got up he sat down & wrote a letter to the english   there was no use waiting for a reply   it came   hey gabriel look at this shouted louis a letter from those crazy english    they both laughed & went off to have breakfast             that morning there was no bacon to fry   its those damn englishers said gabriel those damn whitemen theyre sitting up in all night diners staging a food blockade    louis was watching the waitress’s hands as she flipped the pancakes spun the pizza dough kneaded the rising bread & didnt hear him    its as canadian as genocide thot gabrielSUNDAYthe white boys were hanging around the local bar feeling guilty looking for someone to put it on   man its the blacks said billie its what weve done to the blacks   hell said george what about the japanese   but johnny said naw its what weve done to the indians                 outside in the rain louis was dying   its always these damn white boys writing my story these same stupid fuckers that put me down try to make a myth out of me   they sit at counters scribbling their plays on napkins their poems on their sleeves & never see me             hell said george its the perfect image the perfect metaphor   he’s a symbol said johnny   but he’s dead thot billie but didn’t say it out loud   theyre crazy these white boys said louis rielMONDAYthey killed louis riel & by monday they were feeling guiltymaybe we shouldn’t have done it said the mounties as they sat down to breakfast    louis rolled over in his grave & sighed    its not enough they take your life away with a gun they have to take it away with their pens    in the distance he could hear the writers scratching louder & louder    I’m getting sick of being dished up again & again like so many slabs of backbacon he said    i don’t think we should’ve done it said the mounties again reaching for the toast & marmalade    louis clawed his way thru the rotting wood of his coffin & struggled up thru the damp clay onto the ground    they can write down all they want now he said they’ll never find me    the mounties were eating with their mouths open & couldn’t hear him louis dusted the dirt off his rotting flesh & began walkingwhen he came to gabriel’s grave he tapped on the tombstone & said come on gabriel its time we were leaving & the two of them walked off into the sunset like a kodachrome postcard from the hudson bay