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...

Viperid rope of venom
Uncoiling from
Itself

Pit Adder opens
Up to the night
As if mouthing her name
To it

Shape of a murderer
Posing with two

Needles

Fashionably
Against.  

Loudly.
Blood on blood.

Lie for a lie.
Truth for a truth.

Theory of Subjectivity.
Nothing I do is

-When it comes down to it-
For anyone but me.  

My warmest deeds were done
To feel good and uncold.

I find peace in it.
Reassurance.

Comfort even, when catching
Myself feeling good about hating

The haters, having completely
Forgotten the point of it all.

To not
Hate.

Beauty in a cloud of dust;
As easy to grasp, and to hold.
Yet undeniable. There she goes.

The mice in men that make us
Break pretty things
Just by touch.

I am a construction worker;
I could have fixed this.
Before it broke apart.

Perhaps I knew
I would only break it
Again.

I ask my eyes to remember.
They have so much to tell.
I ask my memory to work with
Them, but it's stubborn,
Like an old pair of shoes
Letting in rocks and
Gravel.
We've walked enough.

I ask my lips to remember
Old juvenile softness,
My ears the sound of wind
Through rainforest foliage; a
Creek drizzling down a water-

Worn hillside, but all is so
Vague after the years between.
Some things resurface,
Then sink back into oblivion.
So much mind wasted on
Everyday trivialities.

I was there,
I tell myself when
Trying to recall the Italian song
Thrown between the brick walls
On either side of the narrow
Canal, as the gondola slid under
Yet another ancient bridge.
I could smell
The water. Filthy and beautiful.

I'm here,
I'll keep telling
Myself as always. Eyes
Resting on the
Ground Of Now,
Neck too sore to look
Back and focus.

Ears hearing her muttering
In sweet sleep, then opening
Her eyes to look into mine,
Touching my

(I'm here)

Face with feather fingers, then
Closing in on herself to
Sleep on, safe and warmed
By present love.

My eyes still see.
Ears still wallow in music.
My skin still

(I'm here)

Feels the touch of something
Wanting to touch it,
Touch it.

For now, I'll listen to
My shoes.

This familiar road. Same bus
Every morning for
Seven years,
Yet never
Noticed

The oak tree
On that field
Until
Now.

A majestic crown of
Darkest green upon
Wood as solid as
Boats and homes.

Growing as slowly
As it wants.

It can.

it doesn't have to mean
anything.
sometimes I just need to
draw something.
something about the way her
hair falls into her face
when she laughs.

something about that crow on
that wire that keeps
yelling my name as if I've
hurt his feelings and he wants me
dead and in Hell.
something about the way I've never
heard anybody say they
love me in her western dialect
before.
I melt whenever she does.
hey, I melted the first time
she said she liked me.

that's all there is to it.
it doesn't have to mean anything.
just like dust, rain, chest pain,
a cracked windshield, a hole in
your sock or a letter from the
taxman.

it's just poetry, mum.
just little
somethings.

Last night, out on town
I had my first one three hours
After the others.

Had one with their
Every second.
All night.

I could smell the city
On my girlfriend's hair.
Feel the warmth

Of her hand when I
Held it to keep
Her steady.

I was there. Almost
Completely sober.
Present.

I could sense everything.

Woke up feeling
Fresh. Unafraid.
Not guilty.

I think I
Won
One.

Laughter hot on the
Trail of your tears. A

Mother's gentle breath
Soothing a bruised knee.

There,
Now.

Broken heart healed, see?
Scar free and good as new.

Winds follow rains;
Spring winter.

Hell, even Lieutenant Dan's legs
Grew back in the end.

Be gentle to the soul of a
Construction worker.  
It is a frail thing from
Everything else
Being so
Solid.

So the Poet knows that to
Stand up for it all,  
He'll have to stand down.
Stand back and
Look around,

Say to himself: Your big heart
Deserves better than
Your big head, brother.
You can both have
Whomever you
Want.

So if you want each other,
Keep wanting each other.
You're not
Stupid, you've got hands. It ain't
Rocket Romance.

I stand yelling on both of my own
Shoulders, trying
Not to confuse
Myself.

I love you.
I'll take that. And
Run with
It.

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.

Soft ****.
Cracked
Concrete. Little
Teacher.

I walk unseen through the
Shadows of my mind's capital.

Lurking, listening. Hearing
My heart talk in its sleep.

Searching the forbidden streets
And dark city parks within me.

I have no joy; only overjoy in
Sight. Somewhere inside is an

Enemy. Someone to fight. I'm
Meeting myself in the ring tonight.

This is you and me. This is therapy.
I have shot everything else that

Moved. Now meet me man to man.
Should be a close enough fight.

I woke up from
(Nearly failed)
Open heart surgery, craving
Water.

In the bed to my left,
Another patient was already
Aware.
Old as stones, and as deaf as
A bucket of dirt.

Nurses all raised their voices,
Straining and struggling
To communicate.
Only every fifth word
Went through.

After a while his adult daughter
Came for a worried visit.
I only just made out their
Shapes in the post-surgery
Half-darkness and my
Morphine haze. She
Spoke to him in a soft voice; a
Hummed whisper,
Barely audible to others.

He answered in the same tone,
Not missing a syllable.

On the rough handrail
Leading up to the barracks-
Where the guys eat lunch

There's a growing gap in the
2x4 -from them carving
Themselves toothpicks.

Everything has potential
For something else
Within.

Caught in a blizzardlike
Blaze of feathers; tickled
Beyond hysteria.
Cheeks strained from smiles
Wide as wingspans of
Windborne
Angels.

Chin sore from gaping
Laughter, heart from racing
Rollercoasterly.
Each step a leap.
Each breath a moan.
Each second grounded,
An eon in flight.

All the drugs in the world
In an IV bag the
Size of a city, tapped to
My soul's veins

Would only bring me
Down from this.

It is morning.
I get to awake.

Take pride.
Pride in the way your eyes
Shine with the
Light of your natural
Selflessness.

I saw what you
Did. How you left your
Own needs for
Later; feeding, lifting,
Holding others.

Take pride.
Within you dwell the
Twinkles; sparks; starlike
Glimmers that render
Unimaginable the

Act of taking
Two legs from
A beast and
Name it
Human.

These are Days of Wonder.
Everyday magic
World shrunk
To seconds across.

Days of Wonder, these are
The unimaginable futures of
Some past gone.

Leaving little pieces of ourselves
Within each machine
We build to lighten our little
Loads.

These are Days of Wonder; I
Wonder how on Earth
I'll name the days to come.
They will be longer and
Brighter and
Warmer than
Ever.

I've always said that the older
The soul, the fewer times

The three ugly words
"What about me?"

Have been uttered from
The mouth it possesses.

I wish I could oil the gears
Of your self worth with my

Every drop of compassion,
But this sudden flash of coldness

In my gut is that of a factory
Owner worrying ever so slightly

About a new sound in old
Machinery within the bowels

Of the buried bunker where they
Manifacture my every set

Of
Sympathies.

Soft sounds of rain through
The open window. Each drop
Landing in wet grass is
A hammer to our hearts.

To feel alone is nothing new,
But I see myself through satelite
Images, afloat dead centering
The ocean,

Biting and clawing at the
Ropes that hold my raft
Together; too afraid of water
Not to drown.  

Silence like tanks rolling out
Of a devastated war zone.  
Let's wrap this up, and my
Pulse escalates to an emergency

Frequency open to recieve any
Mayday or SOS, but my hands
Are too numb to telegraph.
Instead I find myself wiping

Rain and sweat from my face
With mud covered fingers in the
Headlights of a parked car,
Digging a grave

The size of something dead that
Holds secret things, like Love's
True name, or God's, or
Those of my

Future children if ever they be,
Or the hidden meanings behind a
Brutally meaningless
Break-up.

This is one of those days
That I'll never remember.

I've met people like that too,
But when and where is lost

To me. Thursday;
Anonymous.

There are strands of magic
In the seams of a day like this,

Just as in the souls of the people
We meet, and forget.

Gold in a mask of rags.
Life disguised as

Something less than
Magnificence.

With eyes narrow from fatigue
And worries, I gaze at the
Traces of time on my bedroom
Ceiling.

Cracks and flaking paint.
Do nightmares and dreams
Leave their imprints
In wood, like silent poltergeists

Remembered; collected;
Guarded; stored?
Invisible scars on dead surfaces.
So unlike those on me

That she finds with drowzy
Fingertips in the dark,
When I visit and cannot
Sleep from the alien music

Of the Oslo City night. It
Lacks the sound of wind
In trees playing with leaves
That usually make up my

Bedtime soundtrack.
I awoke from dreaming she'd
Left me; driving away with
Some ex and not looking back.

I ran until my
Legs buckled. Ran after her.
I sure hope her poor walls
Don't remember.

I am an old dog.
Fleas are as much a part of me
By now
As my tail.

I put my head in human laps,
Warm their feet with my body.

I fetch whatever they crave,
Not demanding so much as a
Bellyrub back.
Sad old eyes always looking up
From Omega
To Alpha.

All I ask is not to be kicked.

I am an old dog.
Bruises are as much a part of me
By now
As my tail.

Thoughts walk.
Feelings dance.
Separate the two.

Cry wolf in sheep's
Clothing, or whisper your hands
Through warm wool.

Thoughts speak.
Feelings sing an e
Before the -motion.

Don't let your mind
Make a mess on your heart's
Dance floor.

When I cover your name
Tattooed on my left
Pectoral,

I look pretty much like
Me from right before
I sat down in

My brother's tattoo chair,
Eric Church playing on
The stereo,

Your face on my retina, like
Some beautiful snow blind-
Ness, and nearly as

Deceivingly temporary.
"You really want to
Do this, bro'?"

Machine in hand, *"It'll be
There forever..."
"So will she. Write."

The most interesting person
I have met was the one
Least focused on being just that.

Paper beats rock.
It never tries to rain.

As I step out into the street
To stop traffic for the loaded
Truck to back into the
Narrow gates by the
Intersection,
I think about you.

As the suit in the BMW gives
Me the finger and I respond with
A raised index- and little finger
Heavy Metal sign and a grin,
I think about you.

As I signal the driver to back up
Further and further until he's in
Just the right spot to unload,
Take off my wet gloves
And blow into my hands,
Sensing the scent of
Innerwoman, I think about
You.

As the Hiab truck crane unfolds
From itself and rises, rises,
Extending towards
The low, heavy clouds above
The city morning, I think about
Thinking
About you
Naked.

Highest point of the construction
Site. On this job, it's the roof over
The nineth floor.

Horizon whispers of the sun.
I thank the skies for not raining
Right now.

I thank the buildings that make
Up the skyline for the work they've
Provided.

I thank the one I stand on this
Very moment, for the food it puts
On my table.

I've been too hungry to take it
For granted. I face north
And thank my home for its shelter,

For each memory that ties itself
Unto it. I thank the city of Oslo.
She has given me much. Taken too.

I turn to where I just might see the
Lights of my girlfriend's apartment
Building. Hoping she's sound

Asleep, enjoying the extra room the
Bed surrenders when I leave after
Spending the night.

Perhaps stretching out across my
Side; hand on the still warm
Impression on my pillow,

Thinking sleep now, girl. You know
He'll be back tomorrow.
I tip my hard hat to the fact,

And descend back down the ladder.
The sun is almost up, and no
Building ever built itself.

My rhymes are sore.
I've sprained both my
Anaphoras quite badly. Oh,
And I bleed from all my metaphors.

My episthropes are fractured from
Endless twosome emphasis.
I've taken a bad one today.
It's bedtime for beat poets.

Did I offend you?*
the new foreman doesn't know me
that well yet.
I move quickly. make noise
when I work. might not always
pay the respect others feel
themselves due.

sir. I've been declared dead once
already. my surgeon was a veteran,
he still gets chills when looking
back at how my heart
started up again after the final,
desperate zap.

this combination of high blood
pressure and Warfarin has me
knowing full well that I hover
above my grave at all times.
one sneeze or a falling object
combined with the right amount of
everyday bad luck

could see me either dead, or worse;  
needing help to feed or  
wipe myself.
it takes more than constructive
criticism to ruin my day.

more than mere words.
more than thoughtlessness.
more than a bad-beard-day,
a traffic jam or the kind of remark
that a foreman fresh to the site
might dispense to seem
confident to the boys.

my world is a friendly one.
it's easy to understand and forgive
when you've been so close to death
that all those who haven't, are 
children.

Fists pounding against the
Fateful punching bag of
Wordcraft.
Ink on knuckles.
First morning waking up
Alone; face down in
Her pillow that
Still grasps strands of her hair,

And her scent.
I have anchored smiles to the
Stabs that come
When standing in a moment
Next to her fresh absence, not
Holding her hand.

Now I grin into the
Woman shaped vacuum
That follows me like Peter Pan's
Shadow reattached, and
Put my feet on the floor of this
Museum to our every
Yesterday.

I am a very big boy.
I don't have time for self-pity
And longing.
I'll cry a little. Miss a little.
Tear myself apart with little
Reminders, but no more.

I'll be on my own.
Pick a flower or two along the way,
Just to rest my soul upon
Female skin; as poet and artist
More than man.
My eyes keep moving
Upwards; forwards, looking for
Mountains, hungrily.
There's more to Life
Than Love.

I stand alone, rebuilt, enforced.
Sverre 2.0.
An army of one; with a world of
Reinforcements
Standing by for support
If needed.

Fish in the sea like stars or
Grains of sand.
Let the streets be galleries
Where I can smile back at
Women watching with soft eyes,
Without feeling the least
Bit guilty.

-

I rest my head against the
Punching bag, sweaty and done.
Outside, the winds from the south
Play with trees that sing of
Serenity, solitude, silence and
Soul. Proving that
I belong right here. And that
She once did, but
Doesn't.

Tomorrow, two days after my
Father's birthday,
It is the funeral of
My girlfriend's
Old man.

To feel the kiss of celebration on
One cheek, and the jab of the
Opposite on the other
In a one-two-combination
Leaves even hardened boxers
Rocked.

The world is a spinning
Record.
We all dance
Until we drop.
Until the music stops.

Something feels small that
Isn't, as it watches
Sunrise pushing
Fog morning

Aside to make room for
Blue sky day over
A city that seems
To agree with

Winter
That spring is on
Its way:
Me.

When she cries
Oceans withdraw their
Hands from thirsty
Shores to lend tears
To her worries.

When she cries
My hands find her cheeks
And collect little
Beads of diamond from
Velvet surfaces.

I grace my lips with
Divine martinies, and as
Softly as I can, kiss their
Path to where lids meet,
Then lips, as if trying to

Breathe them back into
Her heart through her
Mouth, and by that saying I'm sorry
That I left my love unconfirmed
Last morning.

Pain
Rain
Bacon
Boxers.

When your palm feels
The shoulder of another,

Let it be to encourage;
Not to hold back.

Lifting is rich.
Pulling is for the poor.

Growth is as human
As breath.

Ginger moon
Pulling the tide away
From feet soothed
By water.

I follow. Further down
The river bank.
Until I see her mirrored
By water.

Two moons, each to
Each other mere reflection.
True of all constellations.
By water

I ballance on wet rock,
Called closer unto
The silent circular siren.
By water

I am tenacious moth.
Leaving all other love behind;
It's her and I now.
By morning

I'll be gazing up at her too.
From next to her rippled
Twin. Nested; buried
By water.

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.

New love.
New day.
Some strange sunrise in the
Eyes of the man she just
Possibly chose over
Many.

Not her preference at all, she
Thought, then closed her hand
Around her past, and with one
Last squeeze, let it go.
A man with issues and demons
Different than

The rest of them.
A soft touch -that new too-
And a habit of buying her lilies.
New love.
New day.
Some strange sun setting over

A lifetime of raised hands and
Voices.
Give me days, years, or more,
He whispers.
Love focused on feelings, not
Flesh.

And I will stand with
You. Lay
With you. Walk
Barefoot through
Meadows and minefields
With you.

Glove tossed in a challenge of
Love.
He braces his heart for her
To accept.
I'm bracing my heart for hers
To accept.

We arose from an afternoon nap
like two puppies at feeding time.
all ears and paws and wagging,
one climbing the other in eager
chaos to embrace and consume
friday night.

She moved since then,
But between where we got off
The tram, and her place,
There was a tiny place that sold
Sushi.

Walking through that smell,
Pavement still wet with rain
Outside,
We more often than not
Sent me back out

With her dog Shelby
To do her business. I  
Tied her to the
Street-thing outside, left
Tips and our pride with

The shop, and returned  
With a walk-content dog and
Too much sushi. She would
Have candles lit; Jeff Buckley
Playing,

Looking at Shelby and I as
If we had been gone for
******* ever as we came in.
"You hungry?"
She'd laugh, hug me, command

The dog to bed, me to sofa.
"Thank you."
We'd eat. Open a bottle from her
Impeccable stash.
I bought it. I brought it.

I never ate before her first bite.

She is as prescious to me as
The containment of
Newborn blood
To a parent.

Holding on for
Dear life. To the
Thought of
Letting go.

Tell your mother not
To worry. I know how I
Look, but there are soft
And caring chapters between
The rugged covers by which
I'm judged.

Pine trees free from snow
Stretching green branches
Towards a baby blue
Spring sky's
Sun now warm
Against faces and
Other exposed
Things,

As if worshiping, or
Asking something much,
Much larger
To be
Hugged and
Held. Just
Lifted, hugged and
Held.

So harsh is winter.
So not is
Spring when
Undeniable.

Night. Dark giant.
Lying down as if to sleep
Itself.

Eyes huge as Time
Narrow-
Lulled looking at
Stars beyond
Stars.

Eyes huge as Time to which
Light-years merely lightnights.
Black as blindness
-Empty as newborn hands-
Fog of a cloud in a mist within smoke,
Shaped as the
Opposite of
Fire.

Opposite of fire, and as
Cold as the darkness
It is.