My brother has fewer
Vices than most.

Hands that need to
Create non-idly

Folding reciepts; wrappings;
Pieces of unappealing waste

Into origami -by now nearly
Unconsciously-

Turning nothing to something
And leaving behind him

Little signatures of beauty
Where less was before he

Unbored himself. Such healthy
Opposites to the cigarette butts

And crumpled discardments
Of us other; lesser men of art.

My brother has the vices
Of Nature. Of little gods.

We need him more than
He'll ever care to grasp.

Have you laughed with pain?
Have you cried with pleasure?
Don't tell me you haven't
Lived.

Ants build.
Locusts destroy.
Everything that moves
Dances.

Polite
Freeloaders
Load more
Freely.

You visit me at work,
turning hard hats as you approach
the construction site fence.

the fact that they all know who
you are, is the only reason why
no one whistles.

I put down all my tools,
except that look that makes you
blush and cover my face

with your hand; a soft, sweet joke.
*don't look at me like that, boy.
you know what it does to me...

Rain drumming on car's roof,
Its millions of fingers
Poking at the eyes of busy windshield-
Wipers.
I love driving with you.
Radio classic rock.
Shopping bags releasing their
Contents to dance around in
The back of my van

As I leave the roundabout in
Third gear; its back wheels
Slipping on the wet asphalt.
As always.
I love driving with you.
You hold on and giggle.
I know these rural roads like
The back of your hand.

I clown driving, you shotgun
Laugh at my silliness
As I slow down at my
Exit.
I love driving with you.
People speak better in cars.
Might be, that one part keeping
Eyes on the road lightens the
Conversation.

I've never been lied to
With a steering wheel in my hands.

You checked my pulse
If I slept too
Silently.

My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

The way your tongue inevetably
Returns to the sharp edges of a
Chipped tooth

Despite your efforts
To keep it from cutting itself on
Something sharp, yours and

Broken.

We stand shoulder to shoulder
And watch the house of our
Love, Lust and Laughter
Not burning down
To the ground
After all.

Loves grow.  
Some like redwood trees,
Some like strands of grass.
Yet, the sun of
Touch and caring
Is welcomed with open leaves;
Petals unfolding in acceptance
And gratitude.

Loves grow.
Raging waterfalls of infatuation
Become deep, quiet ponds; even
Strong rivers of current
Union.
Your hands on my face used to
Give me shivers and goosebumps,
Now they warm me from
Skin to spine.
From bark to the innermost
Heart of the wood.

Loves grow.
Trees share branches over time;
Merge.
Centuries or seconds,
From afar enough
Even years tick tock when passing.
I'll count them with you,
Not caring for numbers as much
As movement.

Loves grow.
Roots and flowers,
Fruits from dirt.
One from more.
Your hands on my face are
Mine on yours, and our growth is
The opposite of the
Packing-up of things
And leaving.

No river bed rock ever
Kisses the same water
Twice.

Autumn opens her arms
To September, and I close
My window for the first

Time since May.
I have had better
Summers. Love left behind

In a deluge of tears and regret.
Doctors sharing bad news
With honest concern;

Waves upon sand castles,
Moments; memories, then
Nothing.

I rest beneath the
Cold stream, perhaps
Allowing new waters

To feel my face in time.
For now, the rain strokes
Nothing but the glass

Of a window shut
To the chill of a dying
Summer.

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.

Spring sunrise at four am.
Ine is what the farmers call
That green, transparent film
Of newborn grain
On freshly sown fields.
Low and red in
Rising, Father Sun includes
Little Brother Moon
In his rays of raging
Selflessness.

Top branch perched,
In colourless contrast
To it all, Magpie surveys
The spectacle
And only
Does just
That.

Let's stop putting the label Bad
On our delicate little planet.
Yes, she has ugly skin on parts of

Her continents. Some sour rain,
Some rash from her seven billion fleas.
But she deserves more.

Yes, so perhaps she's only one blue
Eye on the face of the solar system.
A shivering cyclops

Afraid to meet the gazes of duality,
Yet standing tall against
The Jupiters and Red Giants

Of the immediate Universe.
But there, in the black eclipse-dot
Of her iris,

A smoker quits
For the sake of his children,
And I see what it costs.

So I recline, eyes closed,  
In the warmth of a cigarette ****
Crushed under a heel

In its lastness; a little, empty
Crucifix -now a cross-
That reminds me that the sacrifice  

That any non-smoker (not an ex-
Smoker) would never understand,
Comes from the same place as

Those things that make us stop and
Wonder at the selflessness that
Makes Earth

Not a victim orb of crap, but a spaceship
Where angels hike on their time off
Just to experience

The factors of Humanity
That make us stop putting **** in
ourselves, and start loving.

I'm coaching myself
To cry instead of
Berserking in anger.

It saves the walls;
Our things;
My knuckles;

It makes you
Feel
Bigger.

It gives room for you
To hold something
You need

To
Want to
Hold.

Were we ever kind men?
If so, we've evolved into
Naugty boys; both hands wedged
Into cookie jars, swearing
Through crumbs that it
*Wasn't us.

Two months in love; two
decades they feel.

every morning we wake up
older, yet newborn.

I give you a rose with every
moon. soon I will have

to plant you a garden.
one petal for every sweet word.

one thorn to protect you from
each unkind one they'll speak.

beautiful arms. crimson kevlar.
daggers of green. sweet shields...

to believe beyond belief. leap,
choose flight over fall.

many name us naïve.
they do not know:

to loving artists, every day
is new year's eve,

year
zero.

Norwegian Independence Day.
And 200th anniversary.

After the Black Plague in 1349
We fell under Denmark.

1814 there were many enough of
Us to start anew.

The Constitution was written a
Fifteen minute drive from

Here. The heart of the country. And
Here I sit. Outside. Shirt on the

Ironing board. Sun in the face.
So much green it's an ocean of fields

And foliage. Under my bare feet I
Feel the strong, steady

Pulse of the Land. Like that of a
Mother's to an unborn.

Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.
Closest.  
Closest.  

Happy Birthday, Mother.  
I'm here.

All my clothes are oil stained.
Paint soiled, diesel fumed.

Eager to get a job done
I forget to care what I'm
Wearing.

At least she allows herself
Quality make-up,
I think; rubbing absent-mindedly

At mascara stains on my
Shoulder.

They've stopped burning churches and
Ramming knives into one another.

Now they visit the woods without corpse
Paint and disposable cameras,

Eating Norwegian mushrooms around
Fires, boomblasters blasting

'De Mysteriis dom Sathanas' out into
Pinetree forests.

Media turned Black Metal into "satanism".
Inspired the weak.

One scratched the back of the other as newspapers
Sold more than ever, and

Small egos acted beyond their sizes, trying and
Dying for coverage.

Sometimes I feel the remains of vikings,
Battle worn and anti-christian still, after death,

Moaning: No. It was never just for
Show.

They've stopped burning churches now.
Perform with unpainted faces.

One final
Protest.

The devil is ink on cheap paper.
Money and newspapers are barely wood.

Some say they burn like old Norwegian churches.
Others just like their music raw and real.

As the story goes, my newlywed
Ancestors, in accord with
Tradition, drank mead
-Honey wine- for the first full
Month of their marriage.

Honeymoon.

I searched for meaning
In religion and philosophy.
Taking on gods and
Prophets.

Gained some wisdom, but
Ended up confused more than
Enlightened.
Lost the little firm footing
I had.

I searched in arts and music.
Interprating. Analyzing.
Enjoying and disliking.
Expressing and being
Alternative. Original.
Outside the box.

All I gained was an unhealthy
Love of wine.
Less meaning than I
Began with.
Some pretentious friends.
More confusion than ever.

So I stopped searching.
Stopped chasing.
Stood still drawing fresh,
Crisp morning air into
My lungs, then felt it travel
To my soul.

I closed my eyes and heard
Her heartbeat through her
Naked chest; her collar bone
Against my temple.
Attuned my own to hers.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.
Dancing. Still.

Everyday magic.
Adventure within trivialities.
Dirt on the knees of my new
Jeans from recieving a hug from
A five-year-old.

Seeing pride in the eyes of my
Parents from a distance.
Unretainable love
And lust in the eyes of
My woman on a Tuesday afternoon.  
No special occation at all.
Just here,
Now.
Us.

No need to struggle.
To search.
To run after anything.
Just relax. Observe. Appreciate.
Love. Long for, then
Enjoy.

Nothing is without reason.
There's meaning in  
Everything you sense,
Everywhere you are;

You.

You smile at me
Tired eyes that
May not really
Mean it

I'm a very little
Boy
You could slap me
To death

And
Not
Really mean
It

I hear you saying
The games that they're playing
Are meant for the
Talented few.

But the power invested
In all of the best, is
The same one that rests
Within you.

Not saying I love you
this morning felt like
forgetting to take my
medicine.

The Devil rests
Within the chests
Of men whose muse is Wine.
He wears my face
So well some days
His name just might be mine.

We fed the sparrows.
They were the size of their eggs.

She traced the muscles of my
Arm with a nail painted

Satanic black, then rested her river
Of hair of equal tone against my shoulder.  

Didn't need to whisper
Anything. We were both there.

I lift heavy covers to expose
What's mine to behold.
Snow skin, sweet drops of
Salty dew from within.

Flesh female, lady
Bones, choir cells whisper
Their name; Woman.
Woman. Woman.  

Eyes smiling. Mouth smiling.
******* smiling. Womb
Smiling. The rest either
Giggles or shines.

Tattoo of the Midgard Serpent
Around her upper thigh.
Snake of Norse mythology,
Coiled around the world,

Own tail in mouth. When it
Lets go, the world will end.
Its fangs are mine in you.
Poison lust. Venom love.

Refusing to release the
Ragnarok of our common heart,
I slowly kiss its every scale in
Submission.

There is poetry in my blood.
Some blood in my poetry, like that
Fresh from a broken heart
On a band-aid lip kissing
Old pain into fresh pleasure,

And promising truth, comfort and
Loyalty within a blizzard of rose
Petals and cotton candy dandelion,
Being easier to believe than anything
Else ever.

There's poetry in my blood. Cells
Red as new love; white cell soldiers
Devouring infectious threats; poison
Lies and painful heartless behaviour
Such as infidelity or being broken

Up with, in a bed at night; in a
Blossoming garden, or worse,
With a pen in hand, mid-love,  
Mid-poem; mid-
Heartbeat.

Less is more;
Readers of poetry dread wet feet;
Often
Drop novels

One haiku deep.

There are those who will stand
Surrounded by friends,
Yet claim to be fighting alone.

There are those who sing songs
In a choir as most, but in
Disharmonious tones.

There are those who suspect
That the meaning of Life
Is survival alone, so they won't

See art as the gold
In the mines of the soul.
But this is for those ones that don't.

Reflections.
Reminders of something
In you I dislike about
Me.

So far from selflessly
We pat the shoulders of our
Loved ones when they
Remind us of our own
Rewardable sides.

We did good when they did good.
We harvest from their
Achievements.

I suppose mirrors are
The eyes of the
Soul.

Six full chambers
Lined up in front of me.

Suicide roulette with
All fingers on triggers.

One shot in each foot.
One through each palm

(Like some self-proclaimed
Saviour's stigmata).

Double-tap to the chest;  
I need my brain intact

To form poems
As it all goes up

In flames, like a Buddhist
Munk in protest.

Hands to my face.
Only momentum separates
A slap from caress; the  

Intention
So often the
Same.

The old man stares helplessly at
The way her ******* move as she's
Walking.
She not only lets him; smiles.
His best day since -57.
There's an angel for every
Purpose.

Poetry written on cave walls
Of distant planets in other galaxies
Is still comprehensible to human
Hearts.

The stars look the same
From there.

They say the American flag planted
In moon dust is nothing but a
Sun bleached white piece of cloth
By now.

All things, it seems, given enough
Time and exposure

Become requests for
Peace
In the
End.

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.

Worlds change. Everydays forge
Themselves harder to relate to.
Whose world is this now?
What time of era is it?

Millennia tic like seconds in
Eyes and ears large enough
To behold aeons.
Solar systems atoms, planets gears in
Perpetual automata.
Life experience has no
Value; time and age grow in
Different directions.
There are no Complete
Encyclopedia-
No Great Answers, no cold hard
Facts of Life, Death or
Other States of
Being or not.
Only vast waves; myriads of
Poetry, and in the innermost
Center of it all:
Mother Voice:

          *Shhhh...little you.
          Relax.
          All is as it should.
          No thing could ever be out
          Of place.
          Or time.
          Or out.

Today I crave something
Soft. Her warm skin against
My face. Softly whispered
Commands, such as

Come. Rest. Dream. Feel
Safe. Her warm hands; fingers
Whispering kisses on my back as I
Drift away,

But remain inside.
These concrete floors, brick walls,
Ice cold steel of tools, all
Unfriendly; unwelcoming.

I am a child unwilling to be
Born into it all.
Let me stay
Inside,

Where everything is soft.
Soft as strands of silken fog on  
Water. Soft as a grandmother's
Love, monastery choir song,

An infant's evening prayers,
Teddybears and doll's hair.
Zen poetry; fields of flowers.
Mountain dreaming itself unstone.

I have sides to me as
Dark as the
Devil. I deal with
Demons like
Drugs;  

Always dropping
One, adopting
Another.
Don't dream of
Me. Keep the light
On.

My heart rooms
A thousand angels.
They love you as
One. Don't be blown
Too far away by the

Wind of their wings
Keeping my feelings
Afloat.

To be human is to be
The good kind of evil
Or opposite.

All shades, all colours,
Tutti Frutti; aeons of
Flavour.

All that matters
Is the honesty with
Which you embrace
Your own multitudes.

Both feet in Hell, head in
The Heavens,
One hand on either side
Of your heart; keeping
You safe from extremities.

You will cry. Oh, you'll
Cry, looking around
To see if anyone else
Has ever felt as loved,

As guarded.
Carried by angels,
Protected by demons,
Kept warm by the man
Who tamed them
All for
You.

I cannot help how I feel...*
Yes, you can.

That's why they're called
Your feelings.

Trust me, I know it's not
Easy to tell your heart

Who's boss. Like all other
Things, it takes practice.

Practice, will and dicipline.
Growth; the most human of

Human movements; always
Being between.

Let your heart cry. Cry itself
Dry, then beat on.

Lighter. Stronger. Grown.
I'll never touch your face

Again, I sigh to a photo. Then
Burn it. This is dawn;

Nothing to see in the
Dark night now behind.

There will be other faces.
These are my hands.

I wish this
-our first year-
would be the one where

you smiled the most
ever.

and the next.
and the next.

I can't wait to do
my best.

Half full.
Half empty.

Thank God
For this

Glass.

...money can't buy you
Happiness. But it allows you to be
Unhappy in a more
Comfortable way.

Snow like sparks from a
Raging wildfire.

I watch the eighteen wheeler
Unload its cargo,

Shielding my eyes from the
Cotton blizzard.

Glove carries diesel fumes
And the scent of my last cup of

Coffee. Inside it, my hand
Remembers itself full of her hair

And pulling her closer slightly
Too hard, the way she loves it.

Snow like sparks from a
Raging wildfire.

There are a thousand places
I would like to be, right now.

Her bed is one.
This isn't.

First draft.*


My mind is a garden
Overgrown.
Flowers give way to weeds.
I used to enter to relax,  

Now I leave it to.
My mind is a government
Overthrown.
Chaos reigns; more injustice

Now, in the wake of anarchy,
Than prior to revolution.
My mind is a page of my person
Overturned.

I change. Gardens become
Woods. Cities pastures.
Poets dead people.  
My mind is a garden
Overgrown.

Few can pronounce it
Unless Scandinavian.
The r's are all rolling,
And the letters all sound...
More or less not as
In English.
Just let it go, it's a 'twister,
I know.

My names are all old-norse,
Not modern Norwegian.
(Viking-speak sounded
More close to Icelandic).
Sverre means "spin like an arrow",
Expression for being untamed; un-
Controllable; wild-man.
G is for Guttorm: "Where Gods
Seek Shelter"; a fortress for those
One thought needed one least.
Holter means "edge of the woods";
The end of the forest (or where it
Begins).

The Wildman Where the
Gods Seek Shelter at the
Edge of the Woods.

My friends call me Sverre.
It is a name I've shared with
Swordbearing kings.
I am equally proud
When addressed.

At the tender age of thirty-one
I looked up from her pillow at
Barely twenty years of
Flesh and bone and smile.
I didn't need to spy.

Wearing nothing but herself.
Back straight, front to me,
Eyes locked with mine, though never
Once an uttered
Boy, my eyes are up here,
As they travelled across the this-is-me-ness of all of her;

All composed in some wicked
Genious proving that
God created all designers.
And that nothing exceeds the beauty
Of Woman.

I never forget thinking
This could be the one I watch
Dress and undress
For the rest of my life.

I still don't need to spy.