That feeling of my soul getting yanked

That feeling of my soul getting yanked

I wonder where my soul hides when I’m sick

My heart feels as if it’s getting beat up

Is it because the restless ocean is clumping up?

My heart beats regardless of the pain

It beats spewing out red thread like a red spider

A sinkful of red thread gets submerged in water

My heart beats like a girl marathon runner who only had ramen to eat


Maybe the soul of the bald girl in a hospital gown hanging by the

Un Docteur Anglophone Traduit Les Inquiétudes De Son Patient Avec Google/An English Speaking Doctor Translates the Concerns of his Patient with Google


à quoi bon être poète


beau dire

ce mal

semble dans la tête comme

marteau feu enclume clou couteau

ou l’éclat d’une baudroie ou des

aurores boréales


à la fin

pour ce qui importe

on fait toujours mauvais traduction

la douleur est un langue

où les mots sont minable tentative

à ce qu’on ne peut que vivre

dans le corp




toi qui connais

la souffrance



ce mal d’aujourd’hui


C Wing 1

Your mother is missing,

the nurse hovers at the door .


Your mother is missing, a bit louder this time.

As if this was natural, a daily game of let's find the Italian,

the one who doesn't speak English anymore.


In the C wing,

there are 24 rooms, a narrow hallway,

a kitchen, a solarium and a locked entrance.

(It’s not rocket science).


I weave a pattern through the rooms,

each room a riddle to solve before I can move on.

from Cross River . Pick Lotus



How to describe sea

To someone who’s never seen it?


He lives to ninety-nine, he wants it, to see it

To walk on its glass surface, to blow the seven trumpets.


At this joyous moment gigantic angel wings

Write prophecy all over the sky. How can I tell him 


About sea storms, the chocking waves

These things, right and wrong, that happen between us?


The prophecy he can’t read is the world, tears

That become sea, sea that dries to salt.


When I Become You

I'd like to close the distance between us:

where you end, where I begin,


but your skin stops me,

I can't find my way in.


If I could, I'd press every bit of me

against you

until I've slipped inside,

your skin, our tent.


I want to breathe through your mouth.

If I could just slip beneath your skin,

become the better person

you have always been,

I would, in a heartbeat.


Skin to skin. Breath to breath.

I match you.

Adam Father

He wakes up naked and drunk as a bear

on sun-fermented garbage.

Hungover and queasy and riled up by


Nothing going well today, he moans,

life being short and the craft, ah, long.

Still, might as well take a stab at it,

lording it over misrule and tending the


that transforms a garden into Genesis.


So there he goes, stalking through the


on his back legs, pelting down half-

eaten words

from a great height.

New Year

         Out of their torments men carved a flower

         which they perched on the high plateaus of their faces

         hunger makes a canopy for them

         an image dissolves in their last tear

         they drank foam rhythmed monsters

         to the point of ferocious horror

In those days

there was an



         on their hooves the horses were rearing a bit of dream

         fat fiery clouds filled out like mushrooms

Walking with Walt Whitman Through Calgary's Eastside on a Winter Day

Blue-white afternoon. The Bow river churns and smokes

as the city rumbles, economy chokes and bundled homeless

build cardboard homes in the snow. Yes, Walt, this is the new

world, and how often has your huge, burled form lengthened

beside me as we strode through parking lots, the filth and ice

of streets? Great seer, I listen for your relentless cheer

and barbaric yawp: Unscrew the locks from the doors! 

Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!

Start here: