The overripe mango that sits promptly on my desk stares at me through its one eye, indignantly asking to be eaten – before it goes bad.
I consider, strongly, the mango’s proposition.
Contemplating the level of hunger, or desire I have for this demanding piece of fruit.
It may be that the latte I just finished burnt off any remaining taste buds I have, or it may be that I find
something amusing about holding a mango hostage of its pride – but I just can’t eat it.
A once firm, confident specimen edging ever closer to becoming a wrinkly, seeping, sack of rotten juice.
Knowingly, I chain it to its fate by refusing to slice the skin back and swallow its sweetness.
It demands to be mutilated rather than aged.
As I sit here writing of my hostage, it continues to stare through its eye – spiting me.
Cursing me with future putrid fruit, with worms in my apples, and with brown bananas.
Oh, how I hate brown bananas.
This mango has learnt well in the time it’s spent in my room, it knows my weaknesses.
I always knew that fruit had character, but this mango – I tell you, it’s something else.

If I wanted to see the Eiffel tower
I’d pick one photo
of the hundreds, of thousands
ever taken

Taken from every possible angle
In every light available
From down, down, beneath,
and from up, up, above

From an apartment balcony
late at night
with a glass of wine
in one hand.

But, I don’t want to see the Eiffel tower; No!
Instead; I want to see
The laugh lines
of the man who built it

Or the rosy cheeked child
on the corner street
wishing that they were bigger
than they already sadly were,

Or the imprints
of a new-born goat’s feet
in the red, red sand,
of West Africa.

I’d want to see
‘from whence he came’
and ‘from whence he goes’ “
and what home really is again.

I’d want to see
What it means
to see Something more
than just another photo view, of the same old Eiffel tower.

I love communication. I love the push and pull,
the darting of eyes, the grins and the smirks.
I love the deepened sound, the quick inhalations,
the hands to face.
Hands to face, hands to your face and back to mine.
Locked eyes, hands in pockets.
My pockets, your pockets.
Your thumb is sticking out. Mine is hidden.
Curled up in a ball. Holding spare change.
Counting as you talk. 1 dollar and 35 cents.
I think.
Maybe that isn’t a dime.
Maybe it’s a penny. Maybe I have 1 dollar and 26 cents.
You keep talking. I keep recounting.
A little boy walks by and does something silly.
I stop listening and laugh.
I look back, apologize.
Sorry, that was cute.
I say something ordinary. You think I’m profound.
I’m not. I’m ordinary. I just like to think. And say things out loud.
To hear my own voice against yours.
Against the wind and the silly boy.
I check my phone for the time. Not a watch.
No one does that anymore. No one owns watches.
I own one, but its battery is dead, its missing a link.
It doesn’t fit on my wrist. My bus is coming. I might miss it.
I better run.
So I say something expected. See you later.
Or, Have a good-day. Or, I hope your whatever goes well.
Because that’s what you say when you’re catching a bus.
So we depart, and I skip down the steps,
like I probably did when I was 7.
Because sometimes I just feel like skipping.
I get a high off the jump.
A nostalgic shot of carelessness.
Then I remember,  I’m in public. Walk normally.
And you’re probably watching me as I stop skipping and start walking – normally.
You’re probably thinking what the hell was that?
You’re probably laughing.
I don’t look back. My bus is here. I argue with the driver.
Someone stole my bus pass sticker. Yes I’m serious.
The carpet cleaners did it. I’m going home in four days.
I’m not paying for a fare.
He lets me on, finally, after taking in a deep breath.
Sometimes I do that to people. Exhaust them.
I had to this time. 1 dollar and 35 cents,
or 1 dollar and 26 cents, won’t cut it.
I have to get home. It’s too far to walk.
I take my seat, and I feel like an outlaw.
I know I’m not one.
I just like the way the word sounds.
Sounds dangerous and romantic.
I hate romance.
No that’s not true. I hate what people expect of romance.
I like what I expect of romance, and it’s not what people expect.
By people I mean people who like romance novels and movies.
They don’t know what love is because they think you can define it.
I’m almost home, on this bus.
I wonder if I should take the back door, to avoid the man I argued with. Or the front, to say thank you, because I mean it.
I didn’t want to have to walk.
Today I decide to be friendlier than usual,
and walk to the front to say a cheerful thank you.
What I really meant was thank you,
for not being a persistent ******-bag.
And he says something typical. Have a good day – or something.
He probably meant: get off my ******* bus. Buy a pass.
Don’t leave your student ID on your dresser,
when carpet cleaners come for the day.
I get it, and I’m sorry. But I needed to come home.

Alone;
Intermitted silence
Has a sound
Of nothingness
It exists in its
Non-existence
In the very same
Way as you and I
As we realize we
Are only objects
In other’s worlds;
Only noise to
The ears that
Intercept us
We exist in
Nothingness
When we exist
As sound does
In silence

war is an industry
cloaked in big words
whose product
is death
and profit
is image

with a false sense of security
power, and liberty
built in such layers
with so many names
signing so many papers
on matters that they
have no right to sign

that when someone asks
who is responsible
for the schools blown apart
or the rapes of young girls
names slip like water
through the fingers that search

because that one person
was instructed by this
one person
and that one person
was instructed by this
one person

so inevitably you get lost
in the game of name-blaming
and the questions of ethics
are subservient
to the chances of victory
and damage isn’t allowed
to the profit of image

without image you are
no longer the truth
and they are no longer
the wrong
and soon the lines
that separated so clearly
blur one into the other
and it is hard to decipher
who the enemy is

and without this
discernment
between the right
and the wrong
the reasons for fighting
don’t seem so clear
and questions are raised
and voices are heard
and victims are mourned
and colours don’t matter
and neither do prayers

and so those in power
keep these lines straight
with the language of war
to keep out of sight
the responsibility to be had
or the mourning of millions
or the injustice of papers
being signed in corrupt ink

until the public stands up on their own
and erases the lines so rhetorically imposed
and realizes the enemy are not men with dark skin
but obscurity of justice and reason within
the industry of war will continue on raging
through distant lands that are actually close
and the innocent will continue to suffer
and the poor will only get poorer
and in time, the children in this ostracized world
will become bitter and eager
with their own image of evil
and their own language of war.

we are the children of the boomers working class
we sip coffees on the outskirts of town,
where fields meet banks and dentists.

we are generation y and we have been labeled.
we travel to far lands to rid ourselves of the suburban perfection and the small-minded complaints of lawns and *** holes.
we search for value beyond what is in our pockets.

we have watched our parents live monotonous lives,
in order to provide for us.  
we are told that we are spoiled, and slow-starting.

with every act and thought we fight to be otherwise.
we are the children, who were talked about,
during big decisions.

we are the children who were ignored.
now we are effected.
the weight is on our shoulders.

we must live in the world that they created.  
we try to modify, to make due, to change,
only to be told we are naive and powerless.

we have interests in things other than suburbia, business, and details. most apparently, we think for ourselves.
we live in a gap of time that our parents never had,
or that we can not imagine them ever having.

we dream, we debate, we express and we travel.
we move beyond the experiences offered here.
in twenty short years, we have already had enough.

we hold onto a small piece of string,
dangling in the darkness of our existence,
holding onto opportunity, before we are forced to forget and settle.

we hope that some of us will escape. we fear that it is impossible.
we have been given everything, we are lucky and we are safe,
and yet we are unsatisfied.

we have learnt the lesson about money and happiness sooner than our parents.
we get ****** in sleepy city’s to shut out the constant speed and pressure.
we sit on cliffs and watch lights flicker off the waters edge. we sip coffees by highways and pretend we will last like this forever.

everything feels like a movie scene.
everyone is a character.
everyone is fighting against the future that we’re told we’ll have.
the weight is on our shoulders.
we are the children who inherit the earth,
and all of its horrendous problems.

I am ready to throw out every map in the world.
I am ready to forget where the lines were drawn over the natural ebb and flow.
I am ready to forget which fields hold whose blood for which land.
To forget which coloured people live in what regions.
To forget the migration of the colonial powers.
To forget which continent is a lost cause, and which continent doesn’t have one.
To forget who sent what bomb, to which country, to **** how many people.
To forget why deserts are thirsty for more than just water,
and to forget why jungles are losing more than just trees.
I am ready to throw out every map, atlas and globe.
To throw out the borders that tell us who belongs and who intrudes.
To throw out everything we’ve ever been told,
About what makes us safe,
And what we must fear.
I am ready.

You breathed
(I imagined)
As two worlds collided together

Boundaries cracked at their foundation
Red hot liquid spewed at the surface
And a simple white daisy was pushed out of the earth

(I thought of it, a likely story)
You said it was inevitable
Two opposing forces bring each other down

You lied
(I was broken)
And slowly, what was real was gone

I walked down the familiar path and met the crossroads where pavement turns dirt.
I know it well. I can feel it. It is real. I am close. I want to turn.
It seems so simple. I am so close. But I am grabbed and led away.
We don’t have time, I’m told. But I’m so close, I cry.
No time, child, no time. I am led away.
The smell of roasting corn lingers.
The sounds are vivid.
The ache weighs my body down.
I beg and I pull. But I am led away. I look back, it is disappearing.
The smells have gone, the sounds are echos, and the ache intensifies. My bones are burning. I pull. I fail. I am led away. I hurt.
Then; I wake up. I was so close.
The ache lingers as does the low fog outside my early morning window.