Another person.
That's what people means.  
Thousand of smiles
That you still haven't seen.

Eyes looking back,
Hands shaking one's own.
A thousand reminders that
One's not alone.

To be kind and patient.
To see the child within
The heart behind a thoughtless
Mouth, and count to ten.
Treat it as such.
Be biggest.
King.  

To let the lashes heal hidden
Under a heavy cape
And not mention your pain.
Judge only
Those in need of judgement;
Leave the rest
To play.
King.

To ride into battle first; sword
Raised to an enemy campaign
And hurt only foes
With steel as wide as
The history of your beloved
Land. Win.
King.

To only wear your crown
Ceremonially.
All other days a monk; humbly
Uncovered beneath
The eyes of God.
King.

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.

Time flies like a love fuelled poet
Leaping through multiple dimensions
Of the universe of heart and language,

Firing metaphors into the night;
Stabbing wildly at the dark world
Blind souls percieve, with

The intent of a god, angry, then
Un-angry, then furiously,  
Calmly creating,

Sleeping only to recharge-
Letting pen cool down from the
Friction.

For one year and a day, I have
Posted. Greeted poetry
Hello, and danced.

Feet in love with the floor, I
Sit down only to watch the
Others.

Some swirl with veteran steps,
Others try on moves in unsure rhythms
And new, uncomfortable shoes.

One leads the other; challenges,
Encourages. I lean back and take in
The words and lines of breathing poets

That all come together, as
One perfect
Poem.

Foolish, foolish girl.
You should know better than to
Gift swine with a lady's gems.

I would have drawn your tears  
Before you even knew my name if you
Placed your will in my

Two-faced hands. I have sides to me
That break beauty by habit,
That cannot be trusted with hearts.

Foolish girl. Others have wasted time
On me, then left. You should listen;
They were right to. I was there.  

Someone unknowing would say:
All men can be changed. They break
In the end... Get housebroken.

Someone knowing; knowing how some things  
Should hurt, would say: Let All Things Go
That Wish To.

Girl. So kind, so smiling to
Me from the outside, handing me a basket  
Cradling your every last egg.

I hit myself with my hammer.
I know you know when I say
Pain so explosive
You laugh.
For sure, you know that thud
That says "nail" like the others, only
Other.

Your eyes hit mine like hardware.
I know you know when I say
Beauty so dizzying
You laugh.
For sure, you know that in
That says "love" like the others, only
Other.

It's kind of cold in here,* I think as
I leave my
Laptop on the chair and
Pick up the last pair
Of wool socks my late
Grandmother knitted.
Spoiled from spending time
At my girlfriend's place, its shell being
170 years younger than that of
Mine, I suppose...

Old houses breathe.

The cat is balled up on the sofa;
Sleeping within its own
Body heat, only responding
With a flick of an ear to
My patting it.

I light fires in living room and
Kitchen, and
Recall how I used to sit at
Four in the morning
Under a blanket with a cup
Of coffee and tried to

Shiver less as I waited for the fire
To take. My parents' living room,
Having had to move back.
Late twenties. Divorced.
Undergone heart surgery.
Declared bankrupt
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

The ****** Months, I used to
Refer to them as. When it all
Came down.
The following years -spent working,
Saving, drinking the weekends
Away and lying to my doctor

About it- I got to know my parents
Again. My father would knock
On the door to my room and make
YouTube requests; recalling songs
From decades ago he never thought
He'd hear again.
He still brings up those nights
On occation. It was good.

Mother's knock meant room service.
She loved waiting on me like
That. Feeling useful.
Having me there. After all that
Had happened.

I had all I needed up there. Guitars.
Weights and a bench. Decent
Internet. Sometimes I'd just sit in
The dark in silence, hearing nothing
But the ticking of my St. Jude aorta
Heart valve, feeling the soreness of

My fresh scar fading, tracing the
Uneven bones of my rib cage
Where they's sawed me open.
Gutted
(On most levels of Life, in fact).
But it was good. I was
Aware. I was still here.

In the mornings I'd get up at 03.55,
Light the fire and sip my coffee,
Watching snow land on the
Windows, or stars illuminate the
Fields of white outside, perhaps even
Dancing northern lights
Above the pine tree tops.

Winter. Summers were summers.
Bird calls preceded my alarm.
Coffee on the stairs outside.
Sunrise streching her hands above
The horizon as I awoke.
Nothing I could see wasn't home
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

Three years until I moved out again.  
It got quiet for them, I know that.
But I had healed.
Trained.
Grown.
Smiled.

Three moves later, and I'm back in
My home village.
Neighbouring farm.
Countryside silence.
Home.

~

The room is getting warmer. I place a
Piece of wood on the embers and lean
Back in my chair by the fire.
The cat is now completely outstreched
In a full feline smile of fur and limbs.
I see movements in the trees outside in
The corner of my eye, but the winds
May blow as violently as they want.

I have four walls and a roof.
A belly full of salmon, a job that pays,
A wonderful woman who
Loves me as much as I love her, and
From my bedroom window, I see the
Lights from the
House where my parents live.
Where I grew up.
Twice.

Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*

You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.

You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.

You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.

You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
-Just always keep writing; just
Write.
If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...

You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.

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.

I close my eyes, me ears, my mouth, my hands
And become stationary static.
A statue of an angry self-
Posing as art or decoration.

With the ridgid character of rock
I turtle myself into an imaginary shell.
The world can place itself in the gap between alone and lonely.
I need this space

To grow; so I won't deform.
To sleep without my pet demon growling in his sleep
At the foot of the bed to watch me.
I need to see the inside of something that I'm outside,

And I need you to understand:
When I hold you a little too tightly while my mouth travels
The curve of your collar bone and shoulder-
Each other's names tattooed on our bodies;

That when I say that I see you as nothing less than mine,
It means not only for now; forever.
It means until the last star has burned out and the night sky
Is pitch black and dead.

It means until everything is nothing.
When all that is was.
Take it for granted-
I breathe you, whether I laugh
Or cry.

I saw Orion rising
Upon the horizon.
Orion.
Horizing.

I love the city this time on a weekday,*
She says, looking around at the
Empty shadows between orange
Streetlights.

Her first business trip, only
Stockholm this time.
London later.
I carry her suitcase.

After kisses and goodbyes,
I head back to
Her empty place.
Could catch a few hours of

Sleep, but I know I won't.
That bed needs her in
It, to be justified as one.
I'll write instead.

I never feel as  
Alone as I am,
When
I do.

Sorry for biting your
Neck too hard.

I am a man.
Food is my other
Lover.

I dreamed I was blind.
Blind, and uncomfortable
With darkness.

Fingers blistered from
Feeling if the light
Was on.

Listening for something
Between the other somethings
That combine

To create the chord Night
Strums with its claw
While singing

To itself about
Morning,
Eyesight
And other unpleasant
Illuminators.

I am an old dog.
Fur thick from winter nights
Under stars, paws hard from
Scratching at the
Insides of doors.

Sad old eyes see through
Actions and words, reading
Intentions and tendencies.
Biting only to teach
Or carry.

I see the kicks behind your steps.
The nervous punches behind your
Patting.
Invade my space, and I'll make you
A cat person.

I don't have time for your
Self-pity and negative meditations.
Reincarnation has finally granted
Me this simple existence of
Non-illusion.

Picture a leash, and I'll
Never walk at your side.
Free from your two legged
Two-facedness; anything human is
Puppy to me.

Don't try to force me. Or own me.
You'll only fail. You'll always
Fail at taking the animal
Out of the
Animal.

I didn't come this far
To be tame.
I didn't work so hard at not
Needing, to end up begging for
A full bowl.

A Sunday morning out there that
Makes me want to open every
Window and merge outside with
In-.
I could eat the weather; it's so nice.

She smells like fresh laundry
When she sleeps.
Slight dreamsmile on lips that say
They love me daily, and when I run my finger
Over her latest tattoo, they part in a smile even
Fuller. She stretches with a morning moan.
Never interrupt a streching girl.

God...
I hope to God that there is one
So this gratitude is recieved
By The Deserving.

I never pray; I never don't.
I've never been outside a church.

All I have is the same as the richest man
In the world.
The currency is just slightly other.

Beauty seeping from the pores of
Everything, and contrary to the claims of mr.
MC Hammer, I can -indeed-
Touch this.

I was a teenager.
a boy unshaven amongst
pimpled, insecure junior
high school brats.

I'd sit in the dark of my room,
hearing my father's smoker's
cough through the wall
under my Pantera.

long hair, biker boots, leather
coats and torn jeans was asking
to be excluded where I lived. oh,
I asked, begged, pleeded that

they would.
some did; most saw me as
a necessity they
compared themselves with

to assure themselves as normal.
mainstream. accepted.
at least I'm not freak like
Holter.

no. I built this confidence and
character alone.
that was my way to walk.
those were my teenage memories.

don't ever be afraid to get noticed.
it takes grit and
confidence; strong legs to
stand out. and stay there.

Companion
Keeping watch

Head in lap
Comforting

Puppy eyes
Changing minds

Bared teeth against
Danger or none  

Submissive
Loyal

The only company
I need. Hell,

Sometimes I feel like
I am my own
Dog

When admitting own flaws
Rather than pointing out
Those of the other,
Compromise paves the road
To shared progress;
Forgiveness goes
Four ways.

Louder, louder!
Breathe me a storm, blow into
My eyes; force tears from a frozen
Stone.

Touch me with lightning, run your
Palms against my scars until
Your fingerprints wear down and
All evidence of our sin washes

Away like blood from a September
Crime scene flooded with rains.
Louder. Louder!
Shut my thoughts out with slaps and

Painted nails clawing and digging at
My chest in search of a heartbeat.
Once a man has gone cold, he's
Impossible to reheat.

Throw all your love on the fire, I'll
Only slip through your fingers like snow
Brought to a boil, kissing blister farewells
On your hands, rendering our

Love an open cut you weep into.
Louder, Louder!
Cry my name into my absence,

Cry the pain of love passing away in your
Arms like a wounded child soldier's blood  
Onto battleground soil.
Arise to avenge your hopes.

Take this frozen stone and name it Heart.
Cain to your Abel. Apple to Eve.
When love is reduced to a shadow, it's
Barely called ******.

I stood alone. In moonlight merging with
Drizzles of local Roman rain dancing through the
Hole in the dome.
Barely making out the history on the walls,
Yet feeling the weight of the one in them with every cell of my
Insignificant blink of self.

Ten seconds between lights killed and the
Impatient guard's signooooore...

During those I was there.

Throwing rocks into the winter river.
Ice as thin as a child's soul's skin
Carries not the weight
Of History's oldest weapon.

Like a paperless poem it shatters,
Floating away with the fleeing stream.
Water needs no windows.
Nothing is outside to its within.

When she's dead in the ground
All that's left to be found
Are the parts that she
Bought for their lust.
She struts and bashes
Until it's "Lashes
To ashes and bust to dust."

The prices of food in Norway
Are so high now, an honest
Construction worker has to

Rummage around in expired-  
Dates bins and good value
Shelves

Not to get broke on
Pay day.
I used to hate it; feeling

Poor. Now it's a sport.
Working Man vs.
System.

Thank God my father
Makes beer and wine.
He grew up in post WWII

Norway. Flee market ninja.
Never seen a credit card bill.
Chain saw samurai.

We grew up warm in winter.
Never went to bed
Hungry.

Not too many toys.
Patches on the knees of all
But our Sunday best pants.

Thank God for the high
Prices in this
Country.

They teach us to calculate.
To treat foods and things
With the respect they deserve.

Florø, Norway's
westernmost town, 2015.


All you could ever be,
Is *you.
All you ever held was yours
Within the holding.

I ask the snow covered island
Peak towering beyond the body
Of ocean. What is your
Mountain name?

It answers in its
Mother's tongue; silence:
*I am God to Pebble.
I am Child to Ranges.

Brother to Sea stroking my
Sides. Even dancing with Sister
Storm, his every wet touch is
Caress.

I am I.  
Rigid within my given space.
Learn from me if you will.
I care as little as stone.

Power line cutting a thick
Scar across the
Hillside of
Trees.
Signatures of Civilisation; straight
Lines and angles,
Perfect circles. All within
What has none.
Needs none.
Wants none.

Maimed and modified
By the cynical scalpel
Of laziness named Progress,
By incompetent
Surgeons.

Waterfalls tamed and forced
Through turbines.
This naked mountaintop
Was a mile stone
For pedestrian generations.
Now it holds that giant antenna
Like a spiteful eyesore
To those who love
The land.

Power and signals, to sit
In air conditioned comfort
And watch
Nature shows on TV.

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.

Even human hands
Unclench
In spring.

Calyx
Fingers.

Look: This flower
Opens to offer; this
To recieve.

Thank the
Gods I am still
Learning to
Write

An end to this
Humbleness would
End
Me

I have never
Been better
Than any-
One

Except the proud
Stubborn
Un-
Poet

(n) the pleasant, earthy
smell after rain.*

I run the palms of my soul over
Spring's yawning breeze.
It leaves its scent on everything.

Pavement dark with drops of what
Would have been snow
Only weeks ago.

I breathe until my lungs hurt,
And exhale smiling.
Clouds black as midnight withdraw

To reveal a crimson sundown
Forcing orange upon foliage;
Warming every leaf cradled drop

Until they're vapour.
Now that the ice
And snow are gone,

I giggle, and step on every
****** crack I
Can find.

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."

"Oh, yes. That hurt.
That hurt like a thousand slaps from a
Thousand teachers each. Like

Dragon claws dripping with bile and
Venom into male ego exposed. Ego
And pride and the nature of the bottles

Of labelled **** that you threw back,
Chickening out on cold, hard reality.
Once again.

Friends and lovers lost, some long,
Some not. All gone with the wine. You
Could have written volumes by now.

Recorded legendary albums, created
Art like few others.
Yet, every millidrop of your

Blood screams for someone, or
Something rather, to take you
Away from all that's everyday.

Be it even war." Well,
I want peace, now.
Battleworn and

Empty from facing all the same
Demons. Chainmail shredded,
Body worn on the inside from

Aqua Vitae and ale.
It hurts. It hurts like a thousand
Freshly sharpened pencils carving

Into the exposed areas of my love
For bad nostalgic habits and
Days after days with drink, laughter

And inhaling
The air of temporary excitement,
Picking at scabs and naming myself

Surgeon, letting the hearts of others
Pick up my tab when one of us
Inevetably leaves;  

Those freshly sharpened pencils
Carving mantras to keep me alive
And wake me the Hell up, like:

"The people I
Need do not
Need me like

This," and
*"I have
Pride."

Disclaimer:

These are my private opinions.
Feel more than free to disagree.
They've made Life better
For me.

Eat breakfast.
One half hour less of sleep in the
Morning will keep you
Steady and strong until lunch.
It'll be worth it.
Oatmeal packs a good punch.

Don't mention how little
You've slept to anyone.
Unless you operate dangerous
Machinery or rely on being
Rested for the safety of
Yourself or others, no one
Will care.

Map the different nationalities
At your workplace.
Learn these phrases in their
Respective languages:
Hello.
Great work.
Watch out!
Making someone feel welcome at
Work is a gift worth giving.
Bridges build
Friendships. Friendships alone
Make a life worth living.

Spend some money on a
Special water bottle.
It'll inspire you to drink from it.
Drink enough to keep hydrated;
Not so much that your
Breaks interfere with your
Obligations.
Don't challenge your rights,
Or your boss' patience.

Leave the toilet looking a little
Nicer than it was.
Pick up that piece of paper.
Wipe the soap from the sink.
Aim carefully.
Others will follow your example.
Ask for hand disinfectant.
Use it.

If you feel overwhelmed by
Stress, or have personal matters
Occupying your thoughts,
Take a toilet break.
It is one of the best places on Earth to
Clear your head. Take only
The time that
You need.
Even brilliant minds have  
To act to succeed.

Enough on toilets.

Fall in love with a colleague.
Don't ever follow up on it.
Pick a favourite secretary or
Cleaning lady, janitor or
Security guard, etc.
That warm sensation in your chest
When you see them, might just
Make a bad day better.
Theirs too, when you
Smile their way.
Just remember:
Harassment is for the weak and
Insecure; a little attention never
Hurt anyone,
But don't push for more.
Keep it innocent.
Keep it pure.  

Find your least favourite co-
Worker. Make friends.
Start rehearsing that 'old buddy'-
Feeling when you see them.
Say hello. Smile.
You'll be in for a surprise in most
Cases. Trust me, you will find
Golden graces. You'll get to love
Them; you'll look for their faces.

Turn to your seniors.
They are a tremendous resource.
They deserve to be needed.
They deserve your respect.
They know how to repair more
Than we ever will.
They know what it's like
To be younger than them.
They'll have time for your
Questions,
But none to ****.

Quit smoking. Together.
Go for a coffee break.
Go for a fruit break.
Go for a water break.
Together.
Pat each other on the shoulder
With every smoke you don't have.
Take the stairs. You'll feel so well. 
Quit in pairs.
Not in a shell.

Put up humouristic posters,
Tell jokes, make
Friendly fun of each other.
Anything that provokes laughter.
Time will fly. Bonds grow stronger.
You'll look forward to work. You'll
Live happier; longer.

Do more than just enough.
You'll feel so much better about
Your skills. And others about you.
Any job is worth that little extra.
Few are worth doing twice.
Judge your efforts through
Your own eyes.

Be poetry. Don't just write it.
You'll need less ink and paper.
The art will live forever.
You'll be thankful for more.
You'll think higher of yourself.
You'll see the world around you
As the beautiful place it can be.
Be the poet and the poem.

You'll never feel depressed.
You will never be alone.
You'll be the single richest person
That you have ever known.

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.

She's been hurt so many times
she no longer seems to care.
I'm not bruised, she points and
whispers, *here, just place your

punches there.

You owe me nothing but to breathe.
To remember how I tore my heart in
Two rendering a

Blood Eagle to stretch its wings and
Tickle our souls with its sticky feathers.
When I think of us, I see us as we were.

Other people than now.
Memories framing themselves like a
Fantastic painting the artist

Stepped back to admire, then died.
Hang me. Hang me before i hang
Myself.

Dramatically opposed to drama.
Uninterested infatuation.
Broke billionaire.

Mortal gods shaking divine hands
With decomposing composers,
Thanking them for the silence.

We were lovers and enemies, and
I'd still give my life and afterlife to
See you worship another as if I

Never left a fingerprint on this
Planet; resting as safely in arms that
Love you unendingly,

As we all lie sleeping; dreaming
In our own, stronger arms,  
Forgetting that even our loving

Is imaginary.
Death is awakening.
Rubbing the

Eyes of our souls and yawning,
We look up and smile at that which
All of this is a bleak and fleeting

Shadow of.
Plato knew.
When I wish to die, I do too.

This love is not Love.
It's all mud and air.
You owe me nothing but to breathe.

Something so
Interesting; wonderful; so ravenly
"Poe" in "poetically correct" about a
Poem of poets (what
Else would be the plural form?)
Gathering over thoughts, sensations,
Pictures, experiments,
Classics; poems and other
Poetry.

Poets!
You are the throat, tongue and vocal
Chords of the ******* universe!

Poets!
You are the for-ever-victorious
Gladiators of Human Expression!

Poets!
If either one of you ceases to write
I will hunt you down
And          insert violence

I will break your every finger and
Form
Quills of marrow and bone.

I'll watch as you write with
Those.

Putting worlds onto
Paper.

I pile up twenty years worth of
Publisher-declined
Collections.

They reach me to my knees.
Little towers of Poetic
Injustice;

Mini-monuments to the years
Of mailbox disappointments
And cursing the arts.

Now I thank for every manuscript
Returned with their polite regrets.
Another volume of "Unpublished

Works" for the future.
They are my Twelve Monkeys.
My Poetry of Gold at the

Rainbow's End.

At times I wonder if all
I ever wanted
Besides being a poet
Alone, was to have a
Beautiful face to touch.
That let me.
And liked it.
...and nothing more.

I play blind.
Take you in with other
Senses.

Read your every line with my
Fingers, taste your
Sweet salt,

Smell the cotton and sleep
That held you, before I
Woke you up with

Hands and whispered kisses,
Craving to hold you
Myself.

I love you in
Moonlight. I love
You.

Your scents and flavours.
Your heartbeat escapes like
Poetry from your ribcage.

I witnessed the calf's first steps
On matchstick legs.
Mother's tongue towel;
A giant of love and pride.
There was poetry inside.

I've seen deaf lovers gesticulate a
Love story across a room full
Of walls of noise and chatter.
Like smugglers they would hide,
Sneaking poetry inside.

I've seen old mothers stand,
Back straight, denying war
Machinery access.
A protective circle of lives,
Around the
Poetry inside.

I've poked at something
Dead in a ditch
With a stick just to look at the
Maggots and bugs
Couldn't help it though I tried;
There was poetry inside.

I traced her face with mine,
I gazed into
Her spacious eyes as we'd
Unite and move together
And that warmth could not have lied;
There was poetry inside.

Each thing a gallery, that's how I see
The world -as if I read it-
Which I swear by and abide:
It is glaced with art and colour;
It has poetry inside.

In the dust on the back
Of a passing car, the
Thin tip of a
Daughter's finger

Has drawn a
Heart. And
Meant
It.

She loses him every night.
He kisses her good-
Night and walks out into
-Then out of- the streetlight
And into the Out, and
She knows
It's to
Write.

You are the tip of the arrow;
The point of spear
Flung across 13,8 billion years of

Growth and swirling
Relief in death.
Painful birth.
Lives ended, begun and not,

That rests for now
In the chest
Of Present.

Be proud, little one.
All that is is in your honour.

To H.


I suppose there's no such
Thing as true love,
As they say,

So let's keep lying to each
Others' faces until we both
Believe it's

Something*. Who needs
Anything to be more,
After all?

Learning your do's and don'ts.
Your paces, your secrets,
Enjoying the journey

From no one to someone
As you break my ego's heart
With pints of gold, and silver

Bullets like: "You're not that
Great a kisser,
You know,"

And I shrug as if believing
You, emptying my pockets from
Gems and dropping them into

The water, where they're as safe
As anything precious is, when
Out of my reach.

Cape North. Ocean surface
Dark as a drowner's despair
Hurling itself against itself
Upon; within and beyond itself.

You can smell the North Pole
On the wind's perpetual threat
Of storms so strong they carry
Ice in their harsh beings.

So unlike Warrnambool; emerald
Waves high-fiveing Australian
Rock over its own undeniable
Beauty. Silver edged green gems

Flowing as from a giant child
Emperor's slain piñata.
Scent of warm ocean rendering
Its perfection even to closed eyes,  

And I stand with one foot on each
Vertical edge of the world.
Thanking. Breathing. Watching.  
Praying to -and for- everything.

You are here with me. Like
Yellow on wasp; feather on bird;
The one thing added making
All else as graceful as itself.

Stars falling like burning hailstones.
Not one wish formed
From the ashes below.

Earth stretches and yawns; scratches
A continent finally
Free from fleas, then

Returns to solitaire sleep while
Epochs enter into aeons
Before the itching

Ever so slowly begins again;
Species rise to reign in the usual
Pre-apocalyptic illusions of

Meaning, denying being merely a
Planetary slap away from a crushed
Stain of the blood it once ******.

I never feel as in place and balanced
As when my insignificance looks me
Dead in the eye. And winks.