Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
The category, Heart, is for posts that make us feel.
why do extrovert and beautifulget three syllablesbut poor plain gets just oneif plain was polysyllabicit would get more opportunitiesvacations in majorcatanning topless in a thongwhile beefcake verbs look ona mojito by the poolthen another and anothertil plain (no longer plain) shoutslook at me i’m populartrisyllabic like all the restlatinate pronunciationno more the blunt teutoni use…
The man suffered. His suffering was average. His suffering wasn’t acute: no terminal brain tumour that left him writhing in agony and screaming for the sweet release of death. But his suffering wasn’t trivial either: no hangnails or gastro-intestinal discomfort. His was a modest suffering that allowed him to smile when he met his friends, but filled him with a private foreboding.
For as long as I can remember, my parents told me stories of my uncle John, a knight errant who had slain a dragon. He was a man who ventured forth on noble quests to defend the honour of great ladies.
There’s a thread runs through everythingand a seamstress with a camel the sizeof a needle’s eye, though it’s not the eyethat worries me, but the other end,a steel point that runs me throughlike the pin the entomologists useto fix their bugs to the mounting board.The Fates don’t clip the thread, you know.Whoever said that was…
When Oliver was a boy, he used to wander with a stick through the family orchard, whacking at the high branches to knock down the best fruit. This is the image that came to mind whenever people asked about his writing. With pen in hand, he meandered through his thoughts, taking swipes at the best ideas, and if they were ripe, they dropped fresh to the page.
Half-choked Blooms I give my best to the morningand the balance to the afternoonin the half-choked blooms of the rosesand the thorny brambles of a dying quince. Profile of a Poet i used to worship in a churchbut the air was stale and deadi slunked away an outsidernot meek not powerfulan inheritor of nothingthen to…
When people go on holidays, they like to see the sights, or shop, or lie on a beach, or dine in nice restaurants. Me? I like to hunt for graffiti. While I was in Victoria, I did a lot of walking and found graffiti everywhere. Tags. Bombs. Walls. Stencils. Even dust on bus shelters.
At the news of Apple CEO Steve Jobs’ death, I pulled out my very first Mac computer and held an interment ceremony. This is one of the original 128k RAM Macs. No hard drive. It boots from a 3.5 inch floppy disc.
After a month of driving to from in and around western Canada, I’m wondering what to do next. While on the road, I did as I intended, writing poems as I went. Maybe not as many poems as I would have liked, but enough that I have the raw material for a chapbook.
as we drive into Laniganpopulation next to nothinga pull out and a signand on the sign a mapand above the map in bold-faced caps the word LEGENDI’m not thinking cartographyand imagine a bright marqueeflashing The Legend of Laniganlike The Legend of Zeldaevery place has its legendhere we see its traceshere the dusty gravel roadshere the…
Imagine our world is dying. Imagine survival depends on journeys to distant suns settling strange planets colonists voyaging for generations whirling in cigar-shaped tubes tribes of ten thousand adrift between the stars. Now imagine these crafts of our salvation are designed by the Ghermezian brothers: worlds of endless shopping salted by breaks in water parks,…
What was the wildest thing you saw in all of wild Canada? Was it the roaring waters of Rearguard Falls? Or the black bear swimming across Mud Lake? Or the pine beetle chewing its way down the North Thompson River Valley? Or the protesters haranguing politicians on the steps of the Victoria Legislature? Or the…
and now it’s time to say good-byewe liked the fantasy of living herean almost perfect daydream imagining anewa new housea new viewa new routinePaul, who made the leap from fantasy,gives the grand tour: this is whereI worked my first jobwe had our first dateour boy was bornthe drunk driver spilled diesel during the salmon runyou…
i bear my cameralike a crossframing goodexcluding evilturning a coolcompassionate eyeon injusticebut mostly conqueringdeathwith my obsessiverecordingrecordingrecordingwhen i returnthis will all be gonethrough photosmy grief will findits consolationbut when I’m goneno trace of mewill remain in myrecordingrecordingrecordingonly a deep holean absence in the caveof my vision Download the complete collection of poems and accompanying photographs as…
Can’t you snap the cap of the toothpaste tube?Keep the invader microbes from breeding there?I admit: I’m supposed to be large-hearted,above the nit picking details of domesticliving, but this issue grates on me.How will I make it with you through this journeyif the toothpaste gapes on the countertopmoldering night after night in the open air?Our…