All my clothes are oil stained.
Paint soiled, diesel fumed.

Eager to get a job done
I forget to care what I'm
Wearing.

At least she allows herself
Quality make-up,
I think; rubbing absent-mindedly

At mascara stains on my
Shoulder.

I was eight the first time I got shot at.
If they had hit my leg like they tried, they'd have
Gotten my dad where it hurt the most,
As they promised.

An eight year old has no chance of explaining
Where a shot sounded like it came from.
No help to the officers.
An eight year old has no chance of keeping quiet
About the incident, so his mother won't cry.
No help to his father.
No shell. No projectile. No evidence. No protection.

I'll never grasp the courage it took them both
To let me out of the door every morning.
This was rural Norway. Nothing bad ever happened to anyone.
That's what
They'd think in the city; that the "jungle" was there.
It never was.
I wish my then young parents hadn't had to learn that.

I make a point of only nurishing nice memories when I'm with them.
(Only the fun shooting is referred to.)
And sometimes -when I remember-
I make a point of not limping.

I think they notice.


Every time.

Happy Birthday, they called to her
As we met up with friends in common
At a later chapter of our first date.

She hadn't told me.
I hadn't done the research.
I should have known,

I admitted -unnonchalantly- before
She kissed me for the first time
And whispered:

I got what I whished for...

Alone I keep
All the lights
Off.
Ain't no
Sunshine
When
She's
Gone.

Catch every word flung in your direction
As if spoken with the purest, kindest of intents.
You'd be surprised how often
They are.
Take rocks for roses, no matter how
Cold to the first touch.

Learn from river hit by boulder or feather.
I have room for both.
Float along or rest.

No thing thrown in anger hurts me.
I will not complain nor
Thank. I am a river; I
Run to nothing
From nothing.

No one single misunderstanding arises
Where man so rarely roams.

**** you, she says
Smiling between sobs.
You made me stop
Crying.