Poetry Archives Bio
August 22, 2016
Things in Themselves

10:33 AM

With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Marian Schwartz.

To Jon Kertzer

Deep in a cave there sits a man
Watching the shadows on the wall.
He is unchained; his skin is dun.
From once retreating from the sun
Towards this frigid pall.
The figures dance before his eyes.
He turns his head now to apprise
Himself that fire does duly burn behind.
A voice from far above him speaks, slow, droll, and dry.
The man's heart races faster than his mind.
"It is all right, sir; things shall shapify."

July 16, 2016
The Birds

10:28 PM

With apologies to Percy Bysshe Shelley and Александр Пушкин [Aleksandr Pushkin].

I lost the magic gift to conjure words
When I with algebra have verified all art.
I walk the seawall, watch the restless birds
Tug at the clamshells, prying them apart.
Inside they find their food and sate their wants.
They snack on the delicious foot, obscene
In its protruding challenge to the tongue.
They eat the palps, the gills; they preen.
The cormorant is clacking its hooked beak.
The pigeons amble back to Denman Street.
The geese honk like a horde of party boys
Accompanied by noise of speakers' thrum.
I slow my footsteps then, and fix my poise,
And like a heron wait for words to come.

January 21, 2016
arriving fire apparatus

10:08 AM

 the ceremony
    is as grand
    as ceremonies go

    the attendants mix
       with wine

                 (I work with people who use
                  as a noun

                         an excited hush falls
                      over the crowd
                             the curtain drops

 the games begin
    the criers shout
    into bullhorns

         (one time
          I stole from Home Depot
          a pack of razor blades

                  the slaves' mongrel voice
             sings praise
               to the emperor

 he announces
 memorials under construction
     domiciles for future sepulchre

                    (¿deleuze or delouse
                      deluge or delude?
                      subtle or saddle or suttle

           take your pick:
     the bettors scream
     at a fever pitch

                                  THIS IS THE
                                  GREATEST AGGREGATION
                                  WE HAVE TO OFFER

               (i dream: a map at hills
                of kerrisdale depicting
                palestine and U.S.S.S.S.S.S...

  the nightstick
       rules the night
  if (eel == OK) {

 here it is!
 glistering in the sun!
 the deed is complete!

                          (today my tie's not
                           pointing to my crotch
                           I'm a hawaiian bird of paradise

             here it is!
             it is magnificent!
             it will destroy us all!

(& there was a bridge

 here it is!
 the arriving!

August 14, 2015
my wife is not crazy

9:32 PM

With apologies to Vladimir Nabokov.

I used to be together with this chick
Who happened to be Asian; she was thick
In both (or every) senses of the word,
And our relationship was quite absurd.
She thought herself a poet-bard and fucked
About/around on me behind my back,
And now she is a politician/hack
By way of Boston, or perhaps of Yale.

The second Asian chick was, without fail,
Quite oftentimes wordsmith extraordinaire,
And though she often was a willing sport
(Of which, I am quite sure, you know the sort)
She indicated gently, by and by,
That our relationship would stultify
Her love towards the dragon eye
Belonging to her mighty matriarch.

The third inamorata was at heart
A cook; she'd swoon at gilded ladles, spoons
Hanging face-down from gilded metal hooks.
She never loved to read and had few books
Except Williams-Sonoma catalogues,
And now (all jest aside) I often think
She saw me as: a pot, a colander, perhaps a sink
Cheerfully clothed in shiny stainless steel.

I truth, I think less often than I feel
That (all good times with certainty apart)
This isn't even matter for the heart
But a quite lucid thing in logic's vein.
To put it simply, my wife's not insane:
She won't a raven for a writing desk mistake,
For her, a pain is a pedestrian ache,
A play of light is but an optic trick.

July 24, 2015

12:04 PM

die steward
   dances on the head
  of a pin

       leaving no doubt
          of his theatrical as

  by th flick
        of his wrist

July 3, 2015

8:46 PM

ад тих и холоден
рай лют
          ¿что есть

                            в жертву
                     обмене валют

              на бок (бог переложит
                       ножей подложите
                       про пере принесите

голову сельди
перьев птиц

                               тени падают
                            от вековечной лени

        лицо режет
        решётка линий

                                      почём гений

за что отдашь
 ¿по колено

                         за что




June 25, 2015
To The Ex Next

10:19 AM

This is my anagrammatic translation of Christian Bök's "The Xenotext".

Fealty is felony
imp sir

If so arty heresy
go flow

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