Mother tongue

English

Is a language I’ve learned out of necessity

Some might say it’s a success story, to have the second son of working immigrants become his high school’s highest scoring English student

To be chosen valedictorian by his peers based on his speech-writing ability

To get seven scholarships into university for a joint major in English,

And journalism,

Which is basically glorified analytical English

Yes, some might say it’s a success story but for me,

All I see is that I’ve nearly lost the most sacred thing connecting me to my ancestry

See, in the mountains of China, near the lakes and the rocks and the forest of trees, where the sun shimmers down on the ocean of seas

There are villages

Hundreds of villages, where the sheep herders eat and the men do tai chi and the women, they sing as they bring up their seed

And these villages?  They all speak

A different form of Chinese.

See the field villages, where rice farmers toil the fertile soil

While speaking in hakka, and toisan, and more

See fishermen cities, their markets all busy

With gwang dong wah and gwok yeu and now do you see what I’m speaking for?

Imagine if Ottawa, spoke a different language than Oshawa, and Toronto different than St. Johns, and Calgary different from Yukon, but not the same as Edmonton, all different from Chicoutimi, a different dialect from BC, now imagine just how dope that’d be.
But they don't

and it's not

That's why this language

English?

It's a joke to me.

This is why spoken word continues to draw me in. Story-telling and world-changing on the daily.

One of the dopest on the scene, no lie

new poem.

Sometimes I lie awake at night
Seeing dreams in 3D playing on the stucco ceiling above me
See when you spend your days running around in a craze like some dazed up, glazed over mice in a maze,
You tend to find time only slows down enough for you to catch a breath
when you’re sleeping.
So instead of sleeping, I lie awake.
Cause it’s the only chance I ever get to think

Life moves pretty fast, fact, and furiously, too
Fairytales shown to us when we were kids of slow-down Sunday evening strolls and sit down dinners with the folks are simply fiction
Truth is, we’ve given into the addiction, eyeballs twitching, schedule-switching, pitching last-ditch missions
to cure the itching to get rich
in coin or in culture

But too often we forget that it’s time, not money, that heals all wounds
This human race that we run is far too often mistaken as a sprint,
and not a marathon
instead, every being bursting forward straining for the invisible finish line
grasping for straw wreaths to hide our baldheads

Babylon

But what we fail to admit is that the human race is also a relay
and lately the baton’s not being passed around nearly enoughWhile you high-step your way down the sidewalk from business meeting to lecture seating, from hurried greeting to TV dinner eating

you missed the man crouched halfway over on the sidewalk, hat in hand, asking for a little less money and a little more change

you missed the three-pieced suited Wall Street kings, helplessly staring hopeless at their life stories stitched out in numbers on the New York Stock Exchange

you missed the quiet classmate who sits next to you in math class, practicing boyscout knots on necktie nooses in preparation for what’s to come

and you missed the young girl, so starved for affection that she sits, carving rejection into her arm like an amateur tattoo artist

you missed the boy, who faces up to his father’s fists with all the fearlessness of a fighter pilot, who realizes that his father’s need to be violent stems from a father who was always too silent

you missed the mother, carefully packing white-bread and love sandwiches for her kids cause that’s all she can afford

you missed the grandfather, rocked with Alzheimers yet still clutching his playing cards so he can remember what it feels like to hold a hand

and the ex-con, released from prison into a world waiting to beat him back into submission

you missed the war vet, returning home from Iraq to find his baby girl’s now grown up into a 13-year-old drama queen
The type of girl who loves to be mean to 13-year-old Mary Jean
Who might be a little underdeveloped and a little overweight
Who might be scared to relate because she’s never had a real friend outside of facebook and blind dates
See, Daddy never had time to see her
Working hard chasing that American dream
that never quite seemed to turn out as advertised
open your eyes
see your family and friends waving at you in the rearview mirror
Being left behind because you couldn’t take a moment to just (inhale)

breathe for a second

This life is not meant for chasers, faces and names getting caught up in places and games, no.
This life is meant for everyday everybodies who find life unashamed in something as simple as stopping to smell the sweet scent of rain on a sultry summer’s day

Find solace in stillness
Peace in the quiet

Forget your deadlines
and landmine achievements
Instead, grab a loved one,
pack a lunch
and go eat it on the banks of the mainstream
Because sometimes
It’s ok,
to just be.

perks of stipend

driving for the sake of driving

$0.70 upgrade to sweet potato fries

hotel beds with renewable sheets

so it don't matter when old war wounds bleed

because the maids, they got mouths to feed and besides

it's not they

but the company

who pays

This is a city carved from the block of the Canadian tundra
of whitebread, blue collar rednecks
and filipino immigrants
abolished originals drunk off their ass while white collar city workers crowd the bar at River City to watch the new look Jets get demolished in the same old way
skateboarders and basketballers caged like birds
the only ones who haven't flown south for the winter
this city is barren

yet I feel a faint pulse beating its way stronger through the heart of the city
buried deep beneath forked skating rinks and abandoned dreams

a heart of red resistance, forever founded on the drum
a prairie queen being beaten into submission by years of misunderstanding
quiet pride, threadless but hanging on

Hope smells like ocean air, sifting in from between the seams of slave ship planks.

Hope sounds like scrabbling earth, dull shovel strikes into the soil ceiling above your head.

Hope tastes like dried sweat, salt taping your tongue to the roof of your mouth while the prize draws closer.

Hope feels like push-ups,

and it looks like rain.

Lists Installment 2: Ten things I will miss about Ottawa

So as few of you know, and more of you don't know, I recently moved to Toronto to pursue new opportunities, leaving Ottawa, my home of the last 4.5 years, behind.  It's weird to think that I first made the trek out east for university in 2007, and in what seems like a flash, I'm done school.  But Ottawa was about so much more than school to me.  SO much more.

Lists Installment 2: Ten things I will miss about Ottawa (in no particular order)

1.The poetry scene.  Who would've thought that an innocent foray to see Shane Koyczan at the Mercury Lounge in 2008 would end up having such a significant impact on my life?  I literally owe 90 per cent of my life currently to poetry right now, and Ottawa's scene is the one that grew me. 

2. Shawarma.  West and East Coasts call it donair, but Ottawa calls it Shawarma and it is the most glorious 2am meal ever.  Favourite locations include Shawarma King on Bank St. and Castle Shawarma on Rideau.

3. Folk Night at the Laff.  Probably the best quality open mic I have ever frequented.  Hosted good friend Peter Ko one time for his first Ontario gig, and run by my buddy Brad Morden.

4. Eddy's Chip Wagon.  Bank and Sunnyside.  Best.  Poutine.  Ever.  Doesn't matter if Eddy never smiles, talks, or gives correct change - the man hustles for a living and makes unreal fries.  Respect.

5. Drop-in basketball at the MET.  Not the greatest run in Ottawa by a long shot, but the people are nice and their mission is respectable.  It's pleasant to be able to make it through a game without arguing over scores and fouls.

6. Reporting on massacres at the Raven's Nest.  Honestly, Carleton's men's basketball program is one of the most dominant dynasties ever in the history of dynasties, and that's including the Boston Celtics, the Chicago Bulls, and the Ming, Ting, and Wing.  Gonna miss getting box seats under the pretense of my 'reporting.'

7. Busking on Sparks Street with my gal, Meaghan Weasley-Lagrandeur.  People in suits are so generous with their change on Fridays.  And Mondays.  And Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, so long as it's decently warm out and I'm playing Maritime tunes with a redheaded fiddler.

8. Knowing Carleton's campus inside out and being able to play it like a... fiddle.  Seriously, after being a tour guide for two years and having a hustler's mentality in general, I know how to get in and out of every spot on that campus and where to go to get free swag, free meals, and free clothing.  And I don't feel a bit guilty, because they milked me of four years of tuition money anyway.  Rather, it's sad to leave such a hand-out centre.

9. Sessions at Mont Cascades with the homies Kyle, Kiersten, Mary, Dan, Kaite, and Ayla.  Great times shredding the mole hill that is Cascades.  Can't argue with $75 season's passes though, or their nachos.

10. Good, good people.

Sometimes I need a reminder.

One of the best people in the world.

Rapping like saran

I've been saying for a long time that I wanted to make the transition from spoken word to hip-hop.  Not like leaving spoken word behind, persay, as that's what I really love and that's what I'll always go back to, but trying my hand at rapping in an attempt to broaden my horizons (and because I really, really love hip-hop.)  This video is not my first attempt at rapping, but it's definitely the best shot one, through no action of my own.  All credit goes to Sofia and Roderick, who filmed the crap outta this thing.  Enjoy.

WHOOOO

Lists Installment 1: Ten feelings I wish I could bottle and save for later

I’ve decided to introduce a new category to my blog posts.  Recently, I’ve been listening to Sarah Kay’s TED talk a lot – it’s quite nice for doing laundry, walking to work, or playing Tetris.  In it, Sarah talks about getting her students to make lists as a way to inspire ideas for new poetry.  I’ve considered it, and have decided it’s probably fairly brilliant. Thanks, Sarah.  Anyway, I will be introducing “Lists Installment x: Title of List here” to this here blog in an attempt to inspire new ways of thinking. 

As always, thanks for reading.  Be well.

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There are only a select few things in my life that invoke a strong enough feeling within me that I wish I could have access to said feeling at any time, be it physical, emotional, or spiritual (usually all three.) It was difficult to compile this list, not because I couldn’t decide on which ones, but because I had trouble even thinking of ten feelings that I cherish enough to jot down.  Here’s what I came up with.

Lists Installment 1: Ten feelings I wish I could bottle and save for later (in no particular order)

1. Waking up naturally after a completely uninterrupted sleep and knowing I’m going to accomplish something that day.

2. Full speed on the 800m bell lap straightaway.  Preferably a couple steps behind the lead.

3. Truly getting lost in a jam session.

4. First and last run at the ski hill.  First run because I feel invincible, and last run because I know I’ve earned McDonald’s. 

5. Biting into watermelon.

6. Coming off stage after a poem and knowing I’ve won, even though the scores haven’t been announced yet.

7. Reading something for the first time after I’ve written it.

8. Stepping off the plane at YVR.

9. Leading a fast break with the ball in my hands.

10. Feeling alone close to nature, because I never truly feel alone.