Tuesday, April 28, 2009


When we were eight, Stephen-who-was-always-grounded scraped his palm pretty awful. He stuck out his hand to let his Weimaraner lap up the blood and gravel. "It'll heal faster," said Stephen-who-sat-atop-his-wooden-fence-to-chat-with-us-when-grounded. I doubted him but never cared to investigate his medical procedure. I surely never tested his treatment on myself. I didn't really understand Stephen-who-peed-in-a-girl's-mouth sometimes, anyway. Twenty-two years later, as moments ago I pondered the San Jose Sharks losing to the Anaheim Ducks and licking their wounds, I finally get Stephen.

It was consensual and they were kindergarteners, the peeing.

I really like cats. I wish I weren't allergic.

I used to be a hockey fan like really bad.

Thursday, April 16, 2009


Chinese boys. I see you. Hanging on to your Chinese girlfriends. I walk by an ATM today and there you are, your arm 'round the waist of your girlfriend while she's taking out money. Are you protecting her? You're inside a vestibule. You're the only ones in there. I think she's safe, guy. I turn my head and behind me, as we cross the street, there's another one of you with your arm 'round the waist of your girlfriend. I don't think she needs help crossing the street, guy. She's nineteen. Do you need support? I don't think so: You look healthy. Yo, I seen you latched on to your girlfriend like a knapsack as she's trying to walk, and she's trudging laboured 'cause she's got a 145-pound human attached to her back. She's dragging you. She don't look too pleased. And you? You look like a baby. You are abscess. You are The Weak. You are The Emasculated. That's wrong, guy. You are an almost-adult. In some cases, you are an adult. Take your arm off of her. Let her walk. Let her be.

...Chinese boys...

Thursday, April 9, 2009



Printed in Eye Weekly, April 9 - April 15, 2009

Sunday, April 5, 2009


Can you create poetry? No. You can only guide a person, suggest some words, present some images, offer a few melodies. That person will tell you if the pieces amount to poetry or if you have merely recommended words, images, melodies, moments, fragments. You can only lead a person to what you hope will be poetic. Poetry is determined by the recipient.

Saying you created poetry is like saying you created an epiphany. That is impossible.

Saturday, April 4, 2009


...but I don't mean poetry in the literary sense. I mean communication that transcends the limitations of the medium. Lyricism with the camera, a moment on stage that makes you ache. Seeing the invisible. Listening to images. Speaking what words can not. Marcello Mastroianni shouting to the girl on the beach in the final moments of La Dolce Vita.

That is the poetry for which we can strive.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009


My Speedball pen remains dunked in the jar where Unico olives once nestled. The black water is still, undisturbed, keeping mum the two-week secret that the C6 nib no longer holds ink, encrusted in rust.

Greasy dishes teeter in precarious mismatched stacks, the Lee Kum Kee sauces now impenetrable, some flaking. No clean cutlery. I must reach into the bowels of the drawer to yank out third-string forks, undesireable because of their ostentatious design. I prefer simple. The dishwasher is empty.

Lying on cool tiles gazing at the toilet. On my side. On my back is too many spins. Four glasses of shiraz and three Dos Equis too many.

I tell myself: You've done worse. You've been worse. The dishes will get scrubbed. The nib will get replaced. You will wake up not on the floor, but in your bed. You can sleep in if you want to.