Poetry Archives Bio
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 faithfullness 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.

September 17, 2017
11:20 PM
The Big Day

today my thoughts are not my own
I wake up almost as usual
and walk up davie street to get the truck

the truck is hard to drive
a machine unwieldy and dangerous
but I go through with it anyway

at home  nothing is packed
she walks amongst the rashly wrapp'd
ruins of her own things (and ours

words are thrown
shards are strewn on the red rug
the air full of pained acrimony

but the things get moved somehow
first to the elevator
then to the truck

I get her keys to my apartment
I get my grandmother's wedding ring
I drive

when I pack the new elevator
shoes tumble out of colourful boxes
in mounds and piles

the words fly by me
burberry  ferragamo  prada
sam edelman  steve madden

she shrieks
a mirror breaks
it begins to rain

I finish unloading
we argue one last time
the rhetoric empty and cruel

I return the truck
and drive home in the wet
summer decidedly done

* * *

I absentmindedly unload my food
on the conveyor belt down at the store
in a thematic fashion

i hardly think of  "person shaped  clichés
my intellectual friends had lobbed at me
all week

on monday I buy groceries
I get vegetables and fruit
and meat and cleaning supplies

I listen to jazz
I clean out the fridge
I clean behind the fridge

sometimes I find you
in drawers and between pages
I cry (or not  or imagine you crying (or not

in our respective worlds
I move  I work
I tack a few more lines onto this poem

I fill the holes
I sand the holes
I paint the holes

I paint the insides of closets
I vacuum
I dust

I sleep and I think
of the disintegration
of our mythology

* * *

on tuesday I bury my grandfather
I paint spots in the bedroom
over and over and over

I bleach the walls
I spackle the walls
I paint the walls

I clean out the hallway closet
and paint it inside
I do the same to the laundry cabinet

and to the toilet sink
all shiny and clean
all in its place

I throw away
the donald j. trump
signature collection tie

my mother gave me
for my birthday
many years ago

it used to be red and beautiful
I throw out
bag after bag of trash

* * *

on wednesday
just after midnight
I clean the kitchen

* * *

on thursday
I get a haircut
and trim my beard

I season the meat on the stove
I climb in the closet wholesale
and paint it  paint it white

I clean the hallway
and sort my books
and reminisce

* * *

on friday
I go through my papers
then collapse  and sleep

* * *

on saturday
I get an electric shock
adjusting a power socket

I paint the living room
I clean my office
thinking not once

of the time we danced
on the highway to calgary
with traffic stopped for miles

* * *

on sunday
I go for a walk
my own self proof positive

you can't ever break something
just to have something
to look forward to

i think of picking blueberries
and the sour taste that signalled
that you'd eaten a bug

i think of the things left
of all the things you left me
a hat  a mug  a knife

of the moon  freakishly cut in half
of the fish and the desk stayed behind
of the things that I still needed to buy

(if I were a harbour seal
I'd be dead already
splayed on the rocks with a smile

how i should have sprung
my fantastic stochastic world
made my thoughts opaque

withered all else with one touch
i wanted to say so much
i thought of witty titles for this

like "departurition  or something dramatic
like "the sundering
but instead i ended up with

enter the archives »