Treadwell

by Aidan Andrew Dun

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Timothy Treadwell
wildman, lone
soliloquising zoomaniac
singsong shaman
of the labyrinth
popstar recording
his masterpiece.

In a wilderness
like a subconscious
Tim’s flow on-camera
warm, self-conscious
sometimes: Treadwell
seems narcissistic
saint with the urge
to love beasts.

A hyperborean
peninsula landscape:
take-two for the
sake of permanence.
Running in realtime
Timothy smiles
freestyling in the
Canadian tundra.

Wonderfully sane
Timothy on earth
Christopher Robin
on strong acid
sentry of Eden
serenader of bears:
grizzly-eaten man
of the far north.

Metropolitan blonde
refugee with
drinking-problems
drug histories.
(Out comes delivery
transmission.)
In middleground
a Kodiac watches

Timothy’s back
for him, hell-bent
spitting lyrical hymns
on the precipice.
Take it again: tripod
stand ready
like a tree guarding
life on earth!

Poet of suicidal
clips, Tim giggles
as Teddy enjoys
a full spinal massage
nine-foot mother
up against a pinetree
tracking mad Treadwell
with hairy grin

The beardance of
shapeshifting Timothy
who hibernates shyly
from time to time
confesses himself
on celluloid, goes
public, tells of risk:
the outside chance.

Here’s Tim singing
sunshine lullabies
to a Kodiak female
lying on her back
nursing at milky
boobs her two kids
balanced on the
paradise of her belly.

He telepaths friendly
playful feelings
resonates with bears
who initiate this
infiltrator, white man
of crazy wisdom
becoming bigger
than a whole race.

Here’s the freeranger
in tree-posture
(live footage, high
summer sundown)
paradise for T-man:
two clear months.
‘I tread the great maze
of Ursa Major.’

Now Prince Valiant
adjusts his fringe
androgynous samurai
cast in a sitcom
with ten-foot actors
who dwarf him:
puer aeternis
orphan of Arcturus.

Blood-brother of
the subarctic fox
go well! Walk easily
a moonless night
wise warrior
the new boundaries
between your world
and the beast’s.

Tined food; one-man
tent: no weapon!
That would be
disrespectful to them.
He’s here as nonviolent
video witness
culture-hero of
Vancouver, Toronto.

Miraculously-cured
junky Treadwell
whole again, ex-dipso
crusading champion
of the new
reconciliation
between nature
and the bipedal tyrant.

Offering himself as
ecstatic intermediary
from the street-wars
handsome Timmy
is rock ‘n’ roll naturalist
martial artist
sacrificial patsy
falsetto St Francis.

Here’s Tim as
medicine-man, rainmaker
threatening the old
meteorological pantheons
daring a grey sky
to show compassion!
(Tears of wonder as
demands are met).

Here’s Treadwell as
therapist to brown bears
lecturing, commiserating
romancing even
acting as instructor
to a damaged combatant
alpha-male savaged
in a love-triangle.

See Christ among
the dumb animals
teaching the beasts
transformational.
It’s Kinski’s second
coming as Timothy
Treadwell resurrected
from the dead.

The deep north makes
Treadwell a man:
Dexter of the cities
another scumbag
hits Alaska and
the superman emerges
selfless, ready to die
for a greater good.

The Great Bear points
to the Pole Star
the center, another
condition of life
the lion and the lamb
in each other’s arms:
wildman kisses beast
full on the lips.

Almost ursanthropy
metamorphosis
man into animal
dregs into God:
Timothy reborn as
Lady Nature’s lover
conjuror of the forest
Sacre du Printemps.

He pushes a big friend
away by the snout:
no pussyfooting round
this adversary!
The past is just
a memory of paralysis
a rough bark: ‘Dude.
Get out of my space.’

Here’s Timothy T’s
(twin Tau for crucifixion)
last rant against
the keepers of the earth:
nature-boy turns nasty
unacceptable foaming
of the prophet
in a cold Eden.

He’s here to protect
the Honeysuckers
from the man with
the firepower, gun-mad
sicko fatso
motherfuckers killing
bearcubs just for kicks
in the peninsula.

Only one shortwave
call to back out
but who’ll speak
for them? A carnivore
sleepily inspects the
half-naked interloper.
Will His Majesty behave
like a gentleman?

Big bad grandpa
cast out of the group
arthritic, sick, knee-
deep in the river
missing a rightful
fish in the waterfall
eyes young Timothy
grumpily, greedily:

Peacemaker.
On the last
day he’ll exit
in front of camera
rolling (audio, no
images, leave
that to imagination
underground Herzog’s
filmic obsequies).

But no telling like
this fantasy-footage:
Enkidu running
with the timber-wolves
fighting Gilgamesh
modern city dweller
whose mind has been
chemically sedated.

Thirteen perfect
summers running
transcendental madman
almost in the arms
of the bears
he worshipped
with cool evangelistic
fascination.

Now he walks
up the river to Eden
two brown giants
behind, flanking
accompany Timothy
escort him into
not-for-the-faint-
hearted-country.

Drink, Treadwell
of the wilderness
that old slow sweet
honey of death.
Rest, decapitated
hero, not in vain
your kind, pure fool
comes again.


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