b: 1967 BA: Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, Ontario, Canada MA: University of Victoria, Victoria, British Columbia, Canada (forthcoming) Both degrees in English Literature

Involved in local theatre for 12 years; work retail to eat; love to keep fish as pets. I've been published in school journals only (and recently "rpoetik"). A perpetual people watcher, I have begun lately to watch myself, and watch myself watch others.

Not unlike Margaret Atwood and Bono (of the Irish rock group U2), I usually don't understand what I've written exactly until months, sometimes years later. All my poems are part of an ongoing collection I've entitled "Poems in Progress." Am a firm believer that I am NOT a poet, and that NONE of my poems (I write poetry, but am NOT a poet) will ever be complete. The day I can no longer look at a past work and make changes to it is the day I quit writing.

Alone on Wednesday

my neighbours are yelling "buddy coal"
what the hell does that mean
i'm yelling "shut the fuck up"
they know what that means
not that it stops them
i smoked a cigarette and put the ashes into a margarine tin
plastic
threw it out
though if i was going to die i'd take the world with me

buddy coal

dog's on the loose again
damn boxer
crackers and peanut butter are spread out on the table as i walk into the living room
turn on the tv and watch my obligatory six murders today
that will undoubtedly turn my mind into an insensitive hell-bent
animalistic magnetic field that attracts situations which allow me to
take a knife that is exactly 33 inches long (there doesn't always have to
be symbolism) and plunge it 33 times (symbolism or coincidence -
commentators love the word irony have you noticed - "it's ironic that he (because all sports figures are male, except for those two women in hockey) where was I - oh yeah, "it's ironic that
he has two hits against his former teammates today" HUH? why is that IRONIC? THERE'S NOTHING
FUCKING IRONIC ABOUT IT. NOTHING. FUCK.) plunge it 33 times into a
WOMAN -it HAS to be a woman who is killed after all - and then blame it
on tv

i'm not a violent man
blame it on tv

and my fiance - who's been five hours north of minneapolis - will return
with the obligatory t-shirt, and we'll sit down and watch the obligatory
murders - does that make twelve murders between us meaning we are twice
as likely to become homopathic mutually - domestic violence it's called -
or does it make it the same six between us, thereby rendering us,
theoretically half as homopathic - or does it make three for each of us singly -
which isn't half again as much but double because two singles
equals the brute force of the other only worse because of homosapien
competition - we have to try to outdo each other

here buddy coal
shut the fuck up

the six neighbours are going for a beer now
gonna let the dog run loose
the obligatory D & D - Dog and drinking
Shit

a bedroom in st. jacobs, two eggs, and finance

making love with Dali
must have been strange
fish
with bowls of fruit
smoke
naked half-women
hands holding dice
being crushed by clouds
on fire
falling from the ground

making love with christ
might have been strange
love
with ten commandments
laws
fully clothed sheep-skin half-truths
hands held out
being crushed by doves
on fire
falling from the sky

eating with dali
must have been messy
oil lamp
with broken bottles
mirrors
naked half-women
seen from the back
giant oranges
melting like clocks

eating with christ
might have been filling
food
with five loaves and two fish
wine
oil-annointed feet
holding hands
being kissed by judas
on fire for selling christ's body

playing cards with dali
would allow for new rules
pipe
dealing the next hand
of mice
over the telephone
holding naked half-women
behind a red sky
in the water in the mirror

playing cards with christ
followed all the rules
fairness
with fifty-two cards
and twelve disciples
halnds help out
waiting for the women
to serve the passover meal

dying with dali
would be a self-portrait
apparatus
pianos and rotting donkeys
crutches
early swing music
being held by three hands
neatly installed into cardboard
with a washbasket
as a coffin
buried into the
green sky
and returning one minute short of seventy-two hours

dying with christ
would be self-sacrificial
wood
lashes and spears
water
drinking songs
nailing two hands
into one board
with a cave
as a coffin
harrowing hell
and returning seventy-two hours later
leaving
and returning
and leaving

REPETITION:

For seven years			every night

I would fancy			myself

Walking through a wood		cathedral walk

The scent of birch and pine	spruce and maple

Souring my nose			dulling my senses

Lulling me into safety		every night


The interminable incline	every night

Beating me down			deeper thicker stronger

Until at the crest		in the combe

At the left-hand side		of me

Stood the white house		white picket fence

White children			white swing

Empty				every night


I could not reach the door	could not touch

Could not think of entering	could not dream

Of being inside the mystery	the object

The subject			of me

Could not see the black		inside the white

Dwelling			of my invention


Until the night I dreamt	again

For the millionth time		awoke

Startled			and moved downstairs to watch

Myself watching television	watching the identical

Dreaming I			I on the bigger screen

Scream				inside the house inside the screen inside my

head


Inside my dream

Was mother
With an axe
Dressed in daddy's shirt and
tie