I’m the author of Wave 9: Collages (Flying Islands, 2020) and Not Moving (Broken Sleep Books, 2019). I am the translator of Weeds, by Lu Xun (Seaweed Salad Editions, 2019), and co-translator (with Weng Haiying) of books by Yan Jun, Hu Jiujiu, Ou Ning, Mi Jialu and others. In addition, essays and reviews can be found in Hyperallergic Weekend, LARB China Channel, Cha, Bookforum, Hong Kong Review of Books, Asian Review of Books and other journals.

At present I live in New York City, where I work as a freelance translator and copyeditor. Prior to that I spent nearly a decade in Beijing, where I taught literature at several universities, where I met my wife, and where I found my dog in front of a McDonald’s.

Here is the poem “Parable,” from Wave 9: Collages.


the mountains open

with a very wide mouth

back then, thinking

through clarity and

saw it was

made of dried


a still face


arms and

legs wet



wet on the pavement

and from a similar height




false answers


you’ve misheard




as for

being alive, it’s a

wet sleep of

questions asked to

my hand, grabbing at

a rescue



the door, I

fly up,

like a snake


a baby doesn’t come out in

broad daylight


would out

day and night



and beat me

I intend to kill you

but saying it

what else


the bride


a mistake has

become to

go, and to come back

no one had 

an idea what that was


medicine hates passion


cry all night until,

having eaten enough fruit, the

illness is cured at last

a slave

builds up the


we all laughed and

went our way

exactly as foretold

in the Book of Unhappy


And, from the same manuscript, this is the poem “How Can You Face Them.”

How Can You Face Them

each revolution of the



imagine that

everyone you hate has

come, you’re related to


but nothing happens

how can you face them

as a


on your own


would you

turn around


the subject here

is a person

maybe not one person really, but

it’s common sense

you’re seeing this, thinking

about it, using the facilities


break off


get a phone, no not

a phone, a phone call, say

here’s something new

your agent calls you, must be that


et cetera


over the phone you

say it’s already done

you’re not there in

your not-there



some debt has been

evaded, an open road

the leaves

roll across the still wind

what normal state

up there, to

find abandonment a mere life


oh consolidator!


I did baby things

out, deleted

the new life, old

debt on the loan


oh consolidator!


tenor goes up, up

into my first


rattling off some trivia about

my family. Place

and station, et cetera

no annihilation

no eternity

came in sleep and stayed


therapy today


we’ve got to

connect with each other or

we’re just two topics


“I,” “mine”

should appear to my dreams

as predicates

but Being is not one

a predicate, I mean

at least it’s two of them


a perfect

account of what I

never accomplished


a new note

who hears it


in the inner ear

interring itself


these appear to

be like pairs: no, yes

if, not always

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