I have loved to be alone  
My whole life.

Closed doors, phone on silent.
I have never known

Loneliness.

For Petal Pie and Louise.*

My alarm is a piece of music that
Reminds me of when I awoke
With my mouth on a woman's

Naked shoulder, last.
I've found the right song to differ
Night from day.

I'll start there and
Run with anything, smiling.  
I've been serious enough.

So begins my day. There is no
Garment between my bed and
My bathroom. If the night

Was warm, I'll glimmer like a
Twillit vampire (a thousand diamonds...)
If it was not, I move through the room

Like your regular, hairy
Neanderthal.
I walk showerwards as I walked

Into this world. Without
All. The mirror says: "You could
Have lifted more," while also

Saying: "...many have lifted
Less..." I care less for that  
Than warm water bringing every

Pore of my body from
"I am an unrideable horse," to
"This is my machine. This is my

Only vessel. I will row this ship
Like I row towards the only star
I care to maneuver to;

Shining as such: It is a woman's
World. It wants you; like flowers  
Want water."

Thank you. I know that guy in the
Mirror. He's been gone for
A while.

But with the sound of friendly
Voices behind my
Steps  

It is how I breathe at times
When many others
Cannot, you

Have to smile before
I can say you're
Beautiful

Waking up with my
Head on her naked chest

Made me feel
Fourteen

That slow rhythm held steadily
For hours.
Eyes locked.

We were there.
I couldn't look away.
Neither could you.  

Something built up
Between the eyes and hearts
And centermost of us

Both finally broke.
And my tear hit your
Iris. And was yours.

A sweet, soft engine.
Oiled with heart's blood,
Running on lover's sweat.

A beautiful machine; an
Organism inhaling pain;
Exhaling hope and clear

Skies: The opposite of pollution.
Girl. Closest friend to my
Environment.

Your life began when the first
Grown up eyes fell upon your

Words and welled up with
Parental pride.

You knew you could speak
To feelings; even an adult's.

Every word you'll ever throw
From your heart will hit

At least another. Every feeling
You form into a sword and ******

At the neck of an enemy of a cause;
A love; a matter; a moment

A call to gathering,
Will draw blood.  

Young poet, yours is the oldest of
Souls. You see the clearest; speak

The loudest, hear the most. Write,
Just write! Some arrows will hit

Heart, but you have a shielding legion
Around you, to take the bullets,

Blades and critisism hurled against
You; you are not alone.

Write. Grow. It's a universe that hungers
For your every little word.

Your true life began with your
Hands putting colour to  

Paper.
It was your first breath.

Words came to you, one by one;
Like steps; you learned to walk.

We held your hands as you
Progressed laughing, singing:

                       I want more.

I want to create. Transfer thoughts.
You reached your teens with your

First poem. The one about kittens.
Sometimes you fell.

Came home from school crying
Over painful words; rejection.

We had been through it too, and
Knew how to pick you back up,

Sit you down at a table to write
It out. *Just write, sweetheart.  

                       Just write.

Your true life began as you
Picked up your first pencil.

Learning your words and
Sharing them; thoughts became

Things.

Funny how a four year old
Can answer "because that's
Just what that does" to a

Question, knowing full well
That the grown up is the
Spiteful one, who refuses to

Hear such solid
Truth and find it
Enough.

I am blessed to be a
Man of emotion and
Action.

Heart on my sleeve at
All times; I have never
Concealed a weapon.

The way the sun breaks through
Clouds dark with rain

Above a city that doesn't mind
Either

Reminds me that somewhere 
Something

Really good is happening
To someone deserving

Right
Now

Everything beautiful I
Didn't lose
I broke.

Now all that's left
Is real.
I'm too old

For things
That
Aren't. And so

I embrace the
Ashes and dust
I am.

I not only want you as much as
I do (as a man must be dead  
Not to); I cherish your friendship as
If it had followed me for
Decades; not months.
Is this how romance is born?
Will I die again
Now?

Armed police in the streets of
Oslo. A rare sight.

The intercepted plans for
Terrorist attacks any

Of these days, are taken
Seriously.

It was just too good a summer,
Wasn't it?

A dark cloud hangs over
A city that sleeps through

Months and months of
Unsummer and cold.  

We live under it today, looking
Up over sunglasses and

Beerglasses, happy that it's
Just a metaphor yet, and

Still doesn't have the shape
Of a mushroom.

I have never thrown
A stone at two
Birds

I'm not without
Sin, this house
Is all glass

And besides, who
Needs to **** anything
To multitask

His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up, he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy? I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years, I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice. I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.

I wish I hadn't made those friends
That my mother didn't want me to
(As if their mothers didn't warn them
About the likes of myself).

I would have stayed on the path
To a doctor's in psychology,
Not ending up in construction;  
I'd be neither broke nor bleeding.

I wish I had been convinced as young
That brushing your teeth properly
Will save you hours of working
Your hands to shreds to pay the dentist.

I wish I'd never gotten any of these
Tattoos. That "home made scarification
Is cool only before the infection,"
Was as given to me at thirteen as now.

I wish I'd fallen so in love with my
First girlfriend that we'd be married
With children+dog today, knowing only
The love of each other's.

I wish I hated whisky. That my
Fuse got longer with every stout  
Consumed. And with that, the certainty
That I never could dance. Jig. Ever.

I wish it was all different.
I'd have nothing to sulk about alone
In a double bed. No foot-in-mouth
Memories to still bring me shame,

No failures. No mistakes.
No painful blows or signs of poor
Judgement. Nothing to fret over.
No blame to give myself.

Nothing to cry until I shiver about.
No caring hands to have to live without.
No lost love's name to whisper,
Moan. Shout.
           Nothing at all to write about.

Dream. Plan. Act.
Motion begets
Motion. Motion begets
Result.

Time also flies when
Standing still.
Dreams unbecome
Quickly.  

Act upon plans
Born from dream. No
Step takes you further
Than the first.

There's something in his
Eyes. That construction worker
With more dirt on him
Than the ground.

I recognize you, I say
To the reflection in the
Excavator window.
You look like the guy she

Fell in love with.
Not the one
She left.
Perhaps I should change

Back into him again, or
Just not. Me: Yet another thing
That wasn't broken until
I started fixing it.

The break is long over.
I should be back in that

Hole, jackhammering my
Way around that broken

Pipe. But this butterfly
Landed upon the dust

And band-aids on my hand,
And neither of us

Wants to let
Go.

Funny how self-
Sacrifice is such an
Alien concept to
Some.

I'd rather break your
Heart and both your
Legs, than one of
My nails.

Suppose we're all
Raised one
Way, or
Not. At all.

I'm doing much better now.
Smile more.

I can walk by a radio playing
Slow music without

Speeding up. "...I wish nothing
But the best

For you..." Still, perhaps weekly, 
My thoughts touch upon that

Tiny, little loveborn mistake
We made; how we cried together

Over the decision we came to, and
I sit down behind a corner with

My head in my hands and regret
That we -back then- decided not

To keep
It.

As you watch your lover leave,
Allow yourself an eye for a
Week upon their character; on
How much remains.

If less than you thought,
You'll know how
Much of it was
You.

We're all
Part
Someone's
Illusion.

Log off your gadgets. Log onto Life.
Feel sunlight on your skin, smell the

Sea. Laugh with friends; no lol'ing.*
I agree. Life is for living.

But remember: With this handful of
Technology I can access the camera

On your phone; watch how the gentle
Breeze captures your hair in waves  

Half a world away, and say I love you,
And you hear it over there; smile...

****. Perhaps the future wasn't so
Bad after all.

No wonder the barley is yellowing
In this heat. Surrounded by gold and
Green, I spread my arms. Lawn angel.

No one can laugh like children
Running through garden
Sprinklers.

It's a long enough train to fit
7,248,075,000 passengers. And
Counting.

Seats added with every
Birth. By now
Most

Wonder whether it'll
Ever be slowing down to
Stop. And what

To do when
The doors
Open.

I lean back on my factory-fresh
Couch (that still smells of IKEA)
And turn that Jeff Buckley's Grace
Up so loud the cat escapes under

The bed; ears flat, wide eyed...
And remember. I flip through
My own history -forgotten love,
Nights of such beauty they

Forged themselves onto my
Mind. I see myself stronger;
Dumber. Rougher hands and
Mind.

I hear Chris Cornell and Tori
Amos in shared recollection.
I walked Oslo's paved streets
From a job I loathed.

But it was summer.
I was free.
I was a rock star waiting
To be.

I see hopes I had that remind me
It's not too late for that.
And begin to resonate with
This is your time.

This is when you choose your
Future. Choose.
It's never too late for
Anything.

I was a toddler lost in the
Woods at night, awakening from
Sleepwalking.
Mud on my pyjamas,
Leaves and twigs on the head of
My teddy.

My mother's voice stronger
From the front door; crumbs
To follow into warm arms; each
A piece of poetry paving a path
From the opposite of Heaven
To Heaven.

I've seen them in the mouth
Of a Great White breaking surface.  
Heard them in the sandpaper
Sounds of a mother's tongue against
A stillborn kitten's wet fur;
Wake up. Move... Wake up...

I've found them swept under rugs, or
Left by the last boy to climb
The tree to the top and carve
About the view.
I've smelled them when monster-
Biting the tummy of my friend's
Screaming daughter; laughing
Herself to an unavoidable  
Diaper change.

Pieces of poetry  
On centuries old headstones
And toilet cubicle walls. In old
Eyes regaining faith in young people,
Like yesterday on the bus:

A little old lady getting up.
A wave of helping hands to
Support, secure, show respect; every
One of them a piece.
Each finger a letter; each hand a
Word, a complete poem
In the shape of an

Everyday moment witnessed by
A busload of commuters and a
Poet with busy eyes,
Gathering all those little pieces

Of poetry
Into
This.

Standing
Looking
Thinking

Feeling for a
Hand on
My back

Then one
More to form an
Embrace

Would feel
Like losing your
Phone

Panic
Then the relief
*There it is

"How come you are the one
Comforting me,"* she says after
Blowing her nose with the
Tissue I dispensed,

"...when I am the one leaving
You?"

So I comfort.
Swallow my own despair
And dry tears with my name on
Them that missed by a heart's

Depth and hit her face.

"You're not my girl anymore," I say,
Watching a red moon rise over
Woodland summer nightscapes.

"But that only changes so much.
I'm here for you. Just like before."

That's what friends are for.

It's one of those days.
One of those days
Where my mind punches
Everything I pass.

Where the thought of
Her not being anywhere near
Feels a little like the way I
Found it hard to breathe when

She wasn't, then. Only worse by a
World's width.
It's one of those days.
One of those days when the

Manliest of my
Innermost manliness wants to
Place its head on a chest,
Where naked ******* say nothing

Other than: *"Cry ahead, little boy.
All you are is welcome.
All I am
Is here."