Born in Edson, Alberta in 1974, J. Fisher was a "wildly unsuccessful blues singer and lyricist" before he gravitated to the mean streets of Victoria's downtown core and collected his blog reports of low life escapades for "bulletin from the low light" (Calgary, Frontenac House, 2006, $15.95), a self-conscious mixture of vanity and loathing. According to a jacket endorsement, "J. Fisher's poetry, repulsive and compelling, describes life as a car wreck." Fisher can be dismissed as Bukowski-wannabe, bathing in booze and depraved sex, or praised to the skies as "a fearless documenter of his world." Either way, the reader can't help but have a response. In the poem entitled "wounds too big," he begins: "too fucked up / to get your clothes off so you fall / asleep on the whore, right there / in the alley / what does she care? / she's got her money / and she already knows / you're just an asshole..."

[BCBW 2006] "Poetry"

Photo by Helene Cyr Photography.