Who I am is not this

not a still lake

jealous of the ocean
it’s expansiveness

freedom to roar and roll
gather momentum

wipe out coastal towns
if it gets the urge.


I am not this

a broken Brumby

fixed in a cowboy lasso
caught and corralled

in a vice for the spirit
craving chaos

not edges tucked in
like an over-zealous housewife.


Who i am is not this

a hero home from a war

of fighting the ordinary
wiping out villages

devoted to secure notions
only to find myself

a forgotten veteran
alone with our silence

in a cramped suburban living room
surrounded by mementos

a life once exciting
now just a string of photos.

that form a prison wall
like bad souvenirs

from a time too magical
to be reduced to just a fridge magnet.


I am this

a speeding car going off a cliff

squealing past others
who are still in love with their brakes

but terrified for me
as i ride off

into the unknown
a leap of faith.



The trick to courting danger
is the knowledge that I have secret wings.