Skies promise.
I look up.
First
Flake.

No
More
Nothing.

Me: All
This:

.

I giggle.
World; sand-
Box.
Red plastic
Bucket:
My ♡

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.

Take your
Best shot, Life.

Norwegian Roulette:
Full barrel; take one
Out.
Five outta six
Ain't sad.
Look: Click.

Pain
Rain
Bacon
Boxers.

There's nothing clean about
A break that nobody
Wants.

It's as ***** as dirt,
As ****** as boxing,

And it hurts more than
Having anything else
Broken.

I

She exits herself on the
Sofa. Blanket, dog, and bits
Of a poem on a pad of paper

On the table, like a half-eaten
Piece of homework.
Shades of wine on her sleeping

Lips. Exits herself; space-walks
Outside that frame of mind she's
Been expected to hang herself

On the wall within; she knows
There is more.
There has to be more.

II

She has to be more.
Like so many writers, she falls
Asleep working. Sometimes

Works to fall asleep.
Digging her way through
Herself, mining for words,

Hacking away at painful pasts,
Gathering emerald experiences.  
Diamond doubts and ruby

Regrets all fuel her poetry.
And she reads, spotlight kissed;  
Audience adored,

Goosebump summoning; hairs
On arms and necks stand up as
She whispers directly to me.

About me. Because of me.
In front of everybody.
To music, and I've brought a box

Of pins, and between each of her
Every word, I drop one. And I
Swear to the gods, you can hear

Them all. Like the unsteady
Ticking of a clock too cool to
Care.

III

Poetry jewelry; set with stones
From her innermost. Chips of
Gold from her heart melted

Down to a key pendant she
Holds in her hand; chain dangling,
Eyes closed, forehead resting

Against a door she knows it is
Time to open. Key in one hand,
Pen in the other,

She
Enters
Herself.

This dirt under my
Fingernails is from crawling out
Of holes that Life
Threw me into.

Well... at times I jumped in
Without help.
The point is
I know how to get out.

I'll teach you; here, take
My hand. I might even let
You have the whole arm.
But know:

The moment you try to
Pull me down for a quick fix
Of company and comfort, I'm
Letting go.

Life is more than holes.
More than self-pity.
The sun never searches for
A cold face to kiss.

Everything is
Giant to
Something

On my every birthday
I give my mother
Flowers.

Your skin pale from
Winter. Smooth as
Female Nature Herself; as silk,
Yet warm as young
Motherhood, electric
As newlywed love.

I whisper improvised poetics
Between lips that know each
Pore of your perfect person.
I kiss clichés on your cheekbone,
Nouns on your nose.
Bury my face in your sweet
Eternities of seraphim scented hair,
And pray that the poem
I leave on your parchment skin
Remains unread by
Other readers.
You wrap your covers around
Me, unfolding, then folding,
               Unfolding, then folding,
Like a slowing butterfly mid-
Butterflight.

And I add a poem to everything,
As always.
A poem the exact size of a
Lady loved, -the sound of
Waves of Wish upon Thank,
And the weight of
The world's only
Actual
Church.

...but I would rather see you
Laugh from a distance
Than watch your
Misery from this close.*

**** you, lady
Of poet.

She floated towards me.
An extention of a dream,  
The finger tip of God's
Downstretched hand.

My eyes wide open into
Bedroom darkness, as
If seeing something ghost
Yet so very, very not.

Hair flowing as if fading
Into the frame of
Night. Arms like wings over
Eggs; every piece of my

Heart in one warm nest.
Eyes like universes, skin
The glow of supernovas.
Smile as sincere as a

Mother's. Ænima. Soul-
Muse. The final force
Behind every poet's pen.
Nothing so penetratingly

Beautiful ever touched the
Iris of my inner eye. Never
Felt such embrace, as if safe
At last; knowing: In not too

Long, every drop of water on
Earth has been
Cried at least
Once.

Whenever I wonder how much I love you
I put on the right song
And picture you gone.

It's like an elephant-gun's shot
To the centre
Of a mosquito's
Heart valve.

I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

Who cares if the sun will
Rise again

Night has its charm
It hides

Covers
Soothes

Fear not Lady Death's slender hand
Upon yours

I've been unalive before
Do not worry;

There's
Nothing

There
But Her

He talked like a ******.
Walked like one.
Loudly assisting tourists in the
Line outside the bus.
My luck seated him in
Front of me. I answered
Evasively. Mentally begging

Shut up. Shut up.
I was tired.
I was hungry.

"Would you like a piece of pizza?"
He handed me a sealed
Bag. This close
His eyes contradicted his person.
Sober. Friendly. He smelled
Of aftershave and
Society.

"I shouldn't eat this, I'm working
With a Yoga project
To help addicts recover
Through meditation.
Should stay healthy. Been clean
For three years, though I
Know it doesn't seem like it.

I just love to talk to people."
I ate his pizza. We spoke.  
Squinted in laughter.
He cried like a girl when  
He saw Avatar, he confessed.
"My sons still take the p...
Outta me for that.
I'm so glad they'll never

Have to go through
What I did. I'll
Make sure of
That for
Sure, for
Sure."

I usually write poetry
On the bus.
This Friday afternoon
I lived it.

When we move together
Through the dark streets of
Little Oslo,

Only children don't shy
Away. Black leather, band
Names,

Unretained laughter. If I
Saw us when I was eight,
I'd look up

To us too. I high-five a little
Boy as we pass. Only his mother
Doesn't laugh.

She's here gathering more of her things.
Keeps asking if I want this and that, and I'm sick
With the flu under a blanket on the sofa

Watching my muse quit, from
Deep inside my sweater hood.
Droplets of fever on my forehead,
And she can't keep from touching my face
Every time she walks by.
I turn my mouth against her palm and
Close my eyes. Knees buckle. She
Whimpers.

Something dying that
Tries to not
Want to
Live.

Watching her fingers fly over
Keys and mouse, pausing
Only to rest on her lips when she's
Thinking,

I love her.
Respect her. Adore her;
Deifying, as I do,
Beauty begetting beauty.

She creates as I create.
Seeing, transferring, telling.
Carrying torches for anything
That needs a prophet-

To anywhere that necessitates
Enlightenment
Entertainment
Escape
Elevation.

Her mind and hands are those of
A painter; stained with colour; holding
Reminders like bruises or
Ghosts of kisses

(Deep within ribs that cage
Affection for bloom without
Message; art for the sake of
Itself),  

Of reasons -painful as blissful-
To recreate from creation.
Adapting. Rendering; running
Each impression through
Her filters of appreciation.

She sees with naked eyes.
Listens to the rain from her balcony,  
With Portuguese red wine
Smiling in unison
With lips
Upon lips

That teach her hands to kiss
With the passion of
A loving lover loving longingly,
Drawing; designing; dreaming
Dream into substance.

She knows the language of
Living things, tells stories
With pictures all can comprehend.

My words are merely black and white,
And I lay down my pen and
Watch her

Understanding Nature when
It sighs: "I mean nothing by this,
Other than the deepest of all
Meanings.

All that is,
Is.

Let it."

Sweet sound
Morning darkness
Breeze's whispers of
Snow

Ahhh... I'm almost there
She moans against the
Naked back of
Everything

The queen of
Inbetween
Seasons
Touching greens

Not to **** but lull
Not to take but
Present
This

Is -just like any other
Ending- not an
End at
All

We have a thousand poems for
Every one of your bombs.
With each act of bloodthirst
And slaughter, we respond with
The force of volumes on peace.

Heaven; a holier word than Hell.
One birth overshines a
Hundred deaths.
Cowards wound.
Heroes heal.

Poets create. You cause
A thousand tears with every bullet.
Well, we compose oceans of comfort
In your wake.
Our ink overpowers your lead.

We have a thousand poems
For every one of your bombs.
You are the bringers of death to
The flesh. We are the armour
Of the soul.

Were learned
The hard
Way.

She is in my bed resting.
My computer, TV and fireplace are
In the livingroom.
All the beer is in the fridge.

I have treasures
In my
Every
Room.

When she wakes up, we'll sit
By the fireplace, drinking beer and
Listening to music,
Deciding which movie to watch

Together. Until then, I'm staying
Outside, on the stairs  
In the autumn evening rain, playing this
Game of *All or Nothing.

Edited.

My girlfriend has had trouble sleeping
For as long as she can remember.

None of us willing to worship the
Consumer's deity that Valentine's day

Has become, we dressed for February
And lit a bonfire behind the barn.  

She prepared gourmet hotdogs,
I provided beer, homemade wine

And carried firewood. She turned to
Me, eyes narrowing as the wind

Turned, and smoke caressed her
Fire-warm face.

This is the best Valentine's ever.*
Her face all smile.

All smile and embers.
Now, back in the house,

Her breathing and barely audible
Snores from the bedroom are pure

Music. Sometimes fresh air and
Fire is all

It takes to find silence
Enough

To
Rest.

All this fear of change.
Of being shaped by
Others.

When became identity
So frail? Let me be
Myself.

What else could you
Ever be? Multitudes and  
Motion are

Inevetable. Living is
Growing. Grow
With me.  

We cannot stop this train,
But we can set its course.
Let's change together.

And with us, the world
Around us. Come into
It with me.

It is a long,
Slow
Journey.

I know parts
Of the
Way.

I have loved to be alone  
My whole life.

Closed doors, phone on silent.
I have never known

Loneliness.

Subterranean; flowing like a constant river,
Covered in metres of memes, and hidden.

A man's tears.
Waterfalls falling behind walls of mountain's flesh.
Poetry in forbidden books piled high and burned

By censorist historians.

You pick a scortched piece of page from my footprint,
Blow on it faintly; as if dust off of leaf gold,

And read, when you think I'm not
Watching.

With godnames on sealed lips
I traverse midweek morning,
Leading the baby day
Through silent commands.

Shaping; raising it; preparing
For the excellent hours it'll
Become.
All I am is a result of

The choices I've made since
My first one.
Now here come more.
Every breath, every heartbeat,

Every sliver of your life;
An adventure, when you
Realize your powers.
Poet.

You get those long cheek
Kisses from the girls.
Pats on the shoulder; it's nearly
Strange for them to see you
Alone.

Friends stating obvious things
You'll live through this too.
I will. Just a few stages to
Go through
First.
She's any other man's to
Have now.
I feel the love in her gone.
Her relief that she's out.
She'll never love me again.

~

There. She's gone.
It's in her eyes.

They look at me like
I'm always standing
In her way.

An annoying statue.
Badly carved and uncared for.

Art without
Art.

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.

Am I so mean to you?
Is that why you leave the
Bed to go and cry alone
When you think I'm
Sleeping?*

No.

I go to think. Thinking makes me
Cry. One hour is worth five
Hours of deep sleep.
I see clearer through tears.

I go to ask. Ask why we both miss
The same sides of love.
Why we both lay on either end
Of a mile wide king size

And wait for the other's arm
To reach across the proud void.
I go to ask why we both feel
Unfairly treated for the same

Reasons. I slip away from
The sensation of sleeping alone
When I'm not; it's worse than actual
Solitude.

I go to have meetings with myself.
To evaluate. Analyze. Criticize my
Act and improve. Take and give
Blame between myselves.

Who wouldn't cry?
No, little girl. You're not mean to me.
I am. I am a poet. I don't leave your
Side to weep.

It's all poetry to me.
Poetry and tears.  
I go to sit by myself and
Not write.

Gang ****. wars. famines.
iPad screen a shield between
news of death
and your life.

around, around, around we
go, tripping over molehills,
ignoring mountains where
diamonds and silver

lay as common as dirt
at the top.
this train is heading in painful
directions, but it would

tickle too much if we stop.
so we don't.
I won't give up my wi-fi
to save every child in a village

I've never even heard of.  
we all say it. inaudibly.
too many of us aboard,
but the water is lovely.

would someone -anyone- please,
please rock
this
boat.

Watch your steps, little
Girl. You may be far away,

But when we
Speak I hear you're

Short of breath from
Running.

I am older than you; have
So much time.

You are a firefly. I am
A tree.

Let me come
To you.

In the end, there's only one.
And the other.

I have never seen anything that
Deserved to starve.

No child, no animal.
No tyrant was born evil.

Let's dance, I say, though
None of us really can.

So we try, we try laughing,
And the walls, the ceilling, and by God

The floor laughs with us,
As we fool around like

Tiny Godzillas kicking down
Tinier skyscrapers, holding hands;

Dipping and twirling like the  
Innocent idiots we are.  

Playing. Like a god would create
Another to play with, and they   

Dance worlds into -and out of-
Existence. Not a single bacterium in

This room understands. So let it keep
Not understanding, and as we tire from

Moving and settle down together,
The rain has stopped doing its

Thing, and I point without pointing;
Say without a word:

*Look at that drop, hanging from the
Twig at the end of the branch of that

Willow. And the other. That's me. And
Me. Look until you can look no

Longer. I saved them both for your
Eyes.

Pain is inevetable.
Suffering optionable.

I will lay my mouth upon
This band-aid and whisper

A kiss of comfort into it.
*It only hurts if you pull

The poet off slowly.

Are you smelling
Me?

She laughs but
Only gently

As if not wanting
My lips and nose

Away from
Her arm

Life Herself to
Me; the pieces of

Time between the
Stopping to-

And the
Roses

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.

Las Vegas hit me like a
Jab on the jaw
Rome was an adventure

But I always felt more a
Stranger than
Here, where

Every face |even those of
Smitten tourists|
Carry the features of

"Friend". **** you, London.
Your every borough makes me
As warm as the arms

Of an ex you wish
Wasn't
One.

Legs tired from running
On fumes, hands from the

Weight of band aids,
Blisters and splinters.

Busy bird building nests,
Chipped beak, fading feathers.

Angry at trees for asking me
To make

Them into
Houses.

Alone in her empty bed,
Hand upon his absence.

Terrified at the thought of
Him alone in his;

Enjoying the space and longing
For nothing.

Blue skies are ugly in the eyes
Of sadness,

Their emptiness relateable,
Loneliness sunburn.

She turns to the void.
To the beautiful trees;  

*Are you angry at
Me too?

Body hurts from last night's wine and
This morning's lifting.
Hands shake, sounds of construction
Like an insane symphony of
Unsilence.

My limbs are the fingers of a clenched
Fist around the hope that
The hours may grow wings.
The city, a snail outside
The construction site fence.

We're both prisoners under a
Sky that's waiting to downpour,
Giving each other nervous looks
Through iron bars, smiling
Unwillingly with tears in our eyes,

To immitate consolement.
Today, a line has been drawn between
The world and its enemy,
Of which I'm on the wrong side.
This is how I die;

A drowned flower.
A bleeding scar. An
Exposed nerve in the rain.
At least I have the wine.
Without it, I'd never get this thirsty.

What was I saying?
I don't know.

Your kiss has the same effect
On me as the act of walking

Into another room just to forget
What for.

Such shame
Yet
Beauty in how
Well
You see it all
Fitting together
When the
Whole
No longer
Holds,
And breaks


A pa  r t.

Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.