The latest…from most fronts…

It was a huge relief to have the cast removed after six weeks. Any degree of debilitation is irritating so a fractured radius constituted a huge challenge to my finances and morale. I am grateful for the Internet and good friend Thesa Pakarnyk who kindly facilitated a GoFundMe to cover rent, bills and groceries while I was off work. I had applied for income assistance to no avail. Ignored for two weeks, when the ministry finally made contact I was given nothing but a series of hoops to jump through; sent in 20 documents and still they wanted more! I gave up in disgust.

My latest challenge is buying a new old car with a $2000 budget, financed by my dear son. The Volvo is on its last wheels; broken doors and a leaky sunroof. I’ve decided I will not drive out to Surrey to look at cars, no matter how long it takes to find a deal closer to home. So many scam artists on Craigslist!

Oh! And speaking of poetry, after years of searching for a home for Rattler, the 80s zine Peter Haskell and I published in Los Angeles, Simon Fraser University Library’s Special Collections has acquired it and are in the process of cataloguing. Oddly, no one in So Cal could see its value.

And lastly but not leastly my poems Houla and Birdwatching appear in the current issue of EVENT Poetry & Prose. Nice to be reminded that I am a poet. I hope to write verse again in the not-too-distant future. Might as well post them here:


An infant is not a toy.
An infant cannot breathe underwater
Or fly though the air. Do not drape it
Over the prone man’s head

Or dress it up like a doll.
Journalists view the grisly scene.
Post. Share. Tweet.
UN observers abort,

Prominent commentators punt.
But the drunken skipper acts,
Ordering clean sheets and neat rows
Down below in the hold.

Rogue unidentified man
Hoists the limp boy
Let’s not quibble.

It matters not if the child
Is southern or northern,
Whined or knew pride.
It is as good as dead.

Crooked passages.
Limping messengers.
Frantic, dog-chasing-tail orbits.
A million ships cannot transport us.


 Binoculars resting on the sill

Blackly inveigle us to look.

The luxury of observation,

Rackety silk.

Cotton sheets abuzz,

I sleep with a mad bomber

In a bed too narrow

To contain explosives.

Eroding acres encroach

Shores of receding flesh.

Grip off, I watch


Elfin hummers amok,

Flap-happy mallards

Swarm a blustery afternoon.

I recall bionic gunrunners, East Van,

First day back from gangster land.

Recoiling at the forecast I’d fled,

Cramped in a compact car,

A woman piloting the wife at last.

Blindfolded against his scrutiny,

Foiling implicit shame, I skirted

Roadblocks, sculpted my spine

Straight, forced it

To withstand gales. Tolls.


Lousy steward, I drop

The argillite raven,

Gleaming abalone eyes divided.

I slap my back with hot plasters

So it might bend when necessary.

Fit inside. Repair.

When will listening

Reveal the shape? When

Will seeing decode the trick?



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