How about a readable version of that poem?

Here's version that doesn't require a magnifying glass:

The Bus Ride that Became a Horror Movie

 

It’s 98 km to where, more or less, the incident occurred. You

probably read about it for weeks. Remember that first day

when it was a tragedy, before it unraveled into punch line?:

a man walks onto a bus and saws another man’s head off

for (drum roll) no reason. My American friends sent me emails like:

“I hear they’re beheading people in Canada now.” You get it? –

we’re one of those countries. Ad it to the list

of what Americans know about us: everyone

plays hockey, they have socialized medicine, and

once and while slice each other’s heads off, because

it’s really fucking cold there, I guess.  And here I am

taking that route and thinking about the Saturday

Globe last summer where the reporter rode from Edmonton

to Winnipeg as though the landscape could reveal

or explain anything, as though this highway was haunted

now (as though it wasn’t before). Thinking

this is how we approach trauma in this country – with headlines

like The Bus Ride that became a Horror Movie 

or A Quiet Ride then Carnage. And I watch 

the passengers. Mostly young guys, sitting alone, 

like me. The man across is the one

whose head I might just chop off, then eat his face.

Isn’t that what happened.? The murderer spitting his victim’s

teeth out like watermelon seeds. Who remembers

 

the details now, as we depart, driving through the prairie-scape,

driving into Spring, ice patches melting all around,

barren shrubs half submerged in water, the tall grass still

a dull yellow, its colour sucked out like blood. A deer

half flattened by the side of the road, bloodied ass

mooning us. Quickly approaching Portage, passengers

hooked into ipods and dreams, anywhere but here

and a sign reading “Various Positions Available” and everything

on sale. Right here, approximately, just hacking and hacking,

how many times till a head pops off? Watching

the parking lot fill, the line up growing inside the Tim Hortons

like they were selling indulgences in there, translates,

into an argument for various acts of violence. But doesn’t

mean anything, really. That’s what causes us,

maybe, to play so much goddam hockey and forget

every route in this endless country

is a passage through death,

 

as we arrive in Winnipeg. Sunlight a golden sludge, thick 

as blood, oozing off the warehouse facades, glorious 

and utterly unnewsworthy.