David Thompson

David Thompson has a book, a series of volumes, and a

selected favourite approved by the Crown.

David Thompson has an editor, a publisher, and a

depressed agent.

David Thompson gets his snuff from Turkey, wears

Chinese sunglasses, and smokes the

same cigarettes as me.

David Thompson stands six point one feet taller every

day, keeps his weight in stones but won’t say which ones,

and lets irradiating jelly fish hide in his hair when

swimming. David Thompson feels supple to touch,

makes love like a ghost phantgasm.

When he found out I was writing a poem about David

Thompson, David Thompson’s press agent left a message

carved in the birch outside my window full of quotes

from famous authors. He concluded with sans serif

directions to Prince Albert where many stones are said to

resemble David Thompson.