Poetry Archives Bio
November 14, 2017
11:11 PM
the soup changes its flavour

To Derek Choy

long after they turn off the lights
I sit in my blighted oasis

i preach to the birds
torn into pisces  I write

 "gun! boo! tree! door!
  bye! eclair! succumb! whore!

outside  under the coverlet of night
chinese girls like dolls  chatter over drinks

words are underagents in their souls
light is a reflection off their nethers


i consider the street  the vectors
of pleasure and pressure

l'appel du vide is strong this evening
but there is nowhere to call

  what do wrists have to do
  with teeth?

hark! a metonymic ghost approacheth!
the panic behind the drywall shows

the cadence of the police siren onslaught
reminding me of the skeleton's dance

  the foot bone's connected to the—
  ass bone

meanwhile  his sister places a dot on his forehead
they feed a crow  and highfive an ox

faster and faster and faster they spin
sister  crow  ox/cow  dog  brother

  the teevee news sez
  father said she choked on milk

but we scrutinize every batch
on the nose (though the nose runs away sometimes

still  i tell myself  despite all the
donkey favours  people will make it gold

  it will probably rain  i ought to
  gather my spindly and broken thoughts

but when I straighten my back  my face stiffens
suddenly  i feel my mother in my eyes

October 14, 2017
10:46 PM
four poems: To Prince Edward Island

I live in the Valley of the Roads,
And don't even know it.

The man at the bar, he measures life
In the price of barrels of oil.

No one wants to look at cause and effect;
It's an ugly dance, but somebody's got to do it.

I saw you at the symphony tonight,
There in the back row, with the violins,

Your hair (the way you fold it, swath on swath);
I saw your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your lips,

Slant of the neck, the way her body swayed,
Your childlike, wide-eyed stare—and every time

That she would glance the notes, you would appear—
And every time she'd tilt her head, you'd be no longer there.

2:24 PM
four poems: overheard thoughts

a couple walks
and talks

      once in highschool
      my friend's husky
      ran away one day
      came back pregnant

I pass the pumpjack
eyes follow me sometimes
i make a point to stare
(can i withstand their gaze?

over by the fountainhead
a purple-haired feminist
sociologist insists

      excuse me
      can I see your penis?

on robson street
a halfwit homeless shouts

      nigger fucking pigs!

she screams as she desperately tries
to pull on the chain
on her red touring bicycle

      nigger fucking pigs!
      get outta here bitch!
      I got HIV too you fucking pig!

on the way down home
near granville and drake
a graffiti consists of the words

      Sharon Tate Polanski

October 12, 2017
11:27 PM
four poems: penalty kick

my bloody sins are sealed
with slaps of aftershave

i'm feeling strange
I'm leaving work early today

the quick bronx fonz
jumps over two lady johns

la rasuradora habla
la palabra se abra

"great clits has moved
death at a walmart

staccato brushstrokes
neon lamps (they blare

artistically shitstained
rotunda skylight

defeatured landscape
genus misunderstood

the sweetness and nausea
of the beards of gray moss

imbrication or implication
celebration or cell abrasion

whore quire
don't get got

beyond the initial investment
of the shopping cart

magical thin king
define or deafen

где меня переламывало
и перемалывало

(selon noose  I now beat
the proverbial child

October 9, 2017
2:00 PM
four poems: memento

everything she did was done well
even her dreams were formulated
along great dotted lines of flight

i'd oft imagined that her mind
was like a city  just the kind
that Borges dreamt of dreaming

towards the end her love was like a flame
without heat but on that september day
she waved to me among the golden leaves

the evening sun lit up the building's eaves
and I went up the bridge to photograph her wave

October 6, 2017
7:18 PM
ilk and money

whether you bleed once a month
or more often

whether you tend to get harder
or softer

whether your eyes shine
diamond or ruby

before you can be
a poet

your words must be first
worth a rupee

September 30, 2017
10:40 AM

This is my translation of an excerpt from «Моцарт и Сальери» by Александр Пушкин [Alexandr Pushkin].

To Jovana Andjelkovic

Placed I as pedestal before all artwork:
Became an artisan: to fingers gave
Their fluency, obedient and arid,
And faithfulness to ear. I killed all sound,
Music I sundered like a corpse. I next checked
With algebra all harmony. And then
I finally dared, with science much seducèd
Surrender to the artist's blissful dream.

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