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.

If I ****** myself
Deep enough
Into your hardness-
Recieving softness, will it  
Convince me

That it's really
*You?

Have your bad day.
I'll be either strong enough
For us both, or
Weak with you.

These are the times
Of butterflies and honeydew,
Adventure and laughter,
******* of the kind

That makes the left side of
Grown men numb.
Popcorn and sofa cinema,
Good days and some not so.

Go ahead. Have your bad one.
It comes with the package,
And I don't need you to be tear-
Free, to love you.

Stain my best shirt.
Worry me with a frown.
Cry me an ocean of tears, be
Afraid that I'll leave, shake
If you must, with your every fear.
Just don't ever believe that
I'll drown.

Have your bad day, princess.
Have a year of them.
Just make me aware of them.
I'm the knight in white at
Your side to stay.
Challenge me;
I need scores of dragons
To slay.

Heartsplit*

A measure of the time
Between one part of a relationship
Not caring as much
Anymore

And the other responding
The same way

Slightly longer than a heartbeat
Slightly less than
Love

Perhaps being aware
Never takes us
There

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.

A traditional western Norwegian lullaby, sung by my girlfriend's mother to her in her earliest years. Directly translated from Norwegian.*


It was a lovely, lovely day, and now
That day is over.
All the children that are good
Are sound asleep and dreaming.

The heavens that were happy blue,
With a thousand smiles within'em
Will only start to laugh again
Sometime tomorrow morning.

I promised myself I wouldn't drink
This morning, but
Ring of Fire was playing on the
Radio as I showered.

I guess we shared some demons, J.
Well, here's to us. To how
My father played your songs
For me when only my mother's

Skin and bones were between us.
Here's to you and me, John.
How I cried when June passed, but
Drank to your joining her. To

How you boom-chika-boomed to
The taste of the ice cold beer on her
Warm lips in New Orleans
As we stopped among the piles of

Katrina rubble just to take it all in
(Including each other);
That we were there. Together.
Here's to you, John. To how Rick

Rubin was a prophet sharing your light
One last time with the humble masses
Before it went out. As it should be. As it
**** well should be. To

How my father loved you his whole life
And never got to shake your hand
(But I brought him to meet Willie,
Which was almost as intense to the old man.)

No rest for the wicked, John. So I'll
Never pray that you rest in peace.
I pray that you rock on -June at your
Side- Going to Jackson, when it's

Springtime in Alaska. Remembering
Forks wedged in the walls of San Quentin
And gritty glasses of water served.
I'm putting on my black shirt after

This drink. Then guitar, boots that could
Kick out the foot lights at the Grand Ole,
And an attitude I've adopted with honor.
Here's to us, John.

Walking the
God-
******
Line.

Eyes, eyes, starry skies.
Look at me in that
Dreaming way again, girl.

Draw me
Northern
Lights.

I'll dance with them
Around your every gorgeous
Galaxy.

Getting jealous?*
I nudge her jokingly.

She shrugs and smiles.
I'm not bothered by the

Tattoo on your chest that
Says Tina,

Am I?
God, I love confidence.

No eggshells under my feet,
No worry that she'll pry

Or spy. She's her own woman.
Claims to be mine, but

I know better. Even heavy
Clouds don't own the rain.

All I can do is get
Soaked, open

My mouth if I'm thirsty.
Take in the washing.

Hope that the deluge
Never ends.

It's getting covered up, I
Assure her.

Hoping she
Cares.

Her blood is a running force.
Her temple's hydraulics; the
Instrument of
Her will. She loves like a natural
Catastrophe
Without remorse or contemplation.
Leaving scars in her wake.
When she moves I hear the theme
Song to Raiders of the Lost Ark.
She is my Tomb Raider, my heroine.
I recieve her
Saving me
Like the plot of any
Action movie.

She has blood like a vulcano.
She has love like ashes to bury
Cities.

Wiggles her toes again
Always a good
Sign

Only rich men know
The sensation of
Coming

This close to losing
Something so
Insanely

Valuable

You may be more beast than
Man in their eyes; bearded,
Scarred, too tattooed,
History of violence,

History of summoning tears.
But you'll dig a grave for our
Loved ones with your own
Two hands, bruised knuckles

Around hickory and hard
Plastic. So we can relax and
Cry.
You've wrestled huge, angry

Enemies, and won.
Your hugs are epic.
You have taken lives. You have
Arms to hold galaxies.

Every poem I write
Is a baby.
Sometimes they're not as
Pretty as the lil'uns of
Our kind,
But loved none the less.

And they grow
Shorter
Smaller
Inwards; the opposite
Of a
Child's ways.

There are worlds
Within
Space.

When I touch your
Forehead with
Mine

The energies between our
Eyes dance within
An inch of

Immense impact.
I could drop you over ruins;
Rebuild cities.

Blue sky lightning bolt.
This is not a sunburn.

Struck to the Ground of
Gratitude by the merciless

Fist of serendipity as I toss the
Puzzle in the air and watch the

Pieces land perfectly in place.
Knowing lightning won't hit twice

I stand back mindblown and blissful.
For the first time in so long

The Man Upstairs and I speak
The same language.

There's listening to be done
On both sides.

I tell her that tomorrow
Slides slowly to meet my
Familiar night.

That the changes are few
And subtle. I am OK, I say,
Face still cold from last night's

Pavement.
Truth is I'm terrified.
Heartbroken and soaked in

Myself, clinging to the past with
One hand, fighting its demons
With the other. Terrified.

Embracing my inner
Earthling. Loathing it.
Terrified. Loving it.

I used to think I was only human.
Now I
Know.

Huge hands of happiness holding
Up the heavens.

I'll rest beneath
From now on.

Holy is all that
Relieves.

I'll never cry again from
Hopelessness.

There's not much out here.*
I only invite people who
Say just that

With a slight
Gasp of
Relief.

You couldn't swing a dead cat
Between me
And the Core of All Existence.

I hide myself from External Affairs
Behind homeground
Impenetration.

All I care to explore is my own
Present outermost psychocosmos.
I could open my mouth and
Expell whole systems; solar and
Other.
In constant consumption with
Every sense employed; I know not
When to stop.

I breathe pure air on spiritual diet,
Slimming down to a complete
Absence of Self. Leaving an
Impression like a Lover of Life on
Something dead; I feel nothing
But alive.

I close my eyes and bask in the
Loaded sensation
Of every gun in the room

Being pointed at my person.

They live by me.

Sometimes I feel **** alien, even in the
Most familiar of surroundings.
Instead of spinning, pointing,
Naming everything Home,

I shut myself, and turn inward.
Day after day the first one at a
New school in a foreign country,
As far from a cool kid as the

Overweight teacher's pet with a
Stutter. I don't even know how to
Speak my own name in their
Incomprehensible language.

Nothing here is for me, and
At least E.T. had a home to phone; all
I have is the space i possess as I walk
Through it, eyes firm on borrowed

Footing. No single road leads to my
Rome, and somewhere inside the
Timelessness of my innermost, the
Old, old man watches the young'uns

Talking, dressing, adressing,
Preferring, doing it all the way
Young'uns do, with pale, tired eyes
And simply just

Can't, -tries, but- just doesn't
Understand.

I remove what is left of my
Work gloves
And sit down on a pallet of
Tiles to
Drink water

Project Manager walking by
On his daily survey
Stops
It's a comforting thing to
See a break taken

That is well earned enough
Not to call for
Hiding behind a corner
I suppose it says
What it says

I can be an angry man.
Dead things that won't do as I wish
Tend to break.

Leaving behind a wake of
Fractured drywall and
Nervous cats,
Band-aided knuckles and
Bared bone,
I scare others. Hurt myself.

It's a family curse.
Our men are fiercely fuelled, have
Little patience for slow movers,
Rude tones, spite.
Grenades of muscle and noise
That explode in the faces of
Disrespect, then stand
Alone in craters
And regret.

Thank the gods we love with the same
Intensity.

With a steady stream of
Grains in miniscule multitude
Falling from my fist
I impersonate
Time.

We build our relationships
With the wreckage of all our previous.
Always.

Bagage the weight of
Broken ships.

Expectations built on debree; forever mirrored in
Shrapnel.

Everyday blows huffin' and a' puffin' and'll blow your house
Down piggie after piggie, love after love bacon.

Burn the next one down to the ground.
Harvest forest fresh and be
New.

Years of support, care, selfless-
Ness rendered worthless;
An angry, mean man
Having always been just that
If becoming one
More than
Once.

Unarmed
Queen's protector.

I'm sorry,
Honey.

A sad snapshot of a
thought: we
could have never

met. how close were
we?
to picture

life
without our
love;

opposite of
a
selfie.

Big brother, only one that loves you slightly more.
Somebody who touches you in ways you've never felt before.

Reinforced concrete foundations that
All we are is built upon.

Guardian of Soul, Harvester of Pleasure; Man of Moon, Venus Whisperer.
God of Gods to you.

No less. Asking you to let me let you serve me,
I am no less a normal man

Than any normal man.

She's rock 'n' roll as if it was an
Element.
She walks to the sound of

Cobblestones worshiping her
Heels like the desert its rare
Rains.

Nightclub beats slow
Down to
Match her pulse

As she passes.
Narcissus loving himself
Before her; she mirrors

Men's fragile egos in the
Tears she produces when
Passing them with me

On her mind.
She's rock 'n' roll
As if unsilence itself commanded

A goddess to choose a body
To possess; her
Back straight

Like time was of no such thing
As the essence.
She slows down to match

My humble
Mortal
Pace.

I die.
Then
Not.

Progressive, she says about the music
The red wine has made her
Put on the stereo,

And I'm glad I have no neighbours, but
At the same time I wouldn't care
If I did; the way her

Hair smells when she headbangs
Is worth more than summer lilac
And lakeside pine in air. Or silence.

I have surrendered to you day after
Day, tonight I put my sword to the ground
And kick dirt upon it

So it will not awaken. I am without
Arms, touching your face with
My unreachabilities.

Rhythm is the only God we have.
Tone is our Saviour, Melody the Holiest
Of Ghosts . *How can we live

Like this? I ask, then shut my mouth
And do as she says: Just listen to
How it climbs; moves; is.

I have no more fight in me. So I
Won't. I'll just let her decide the volume
And music, and when I need it, Dream

Theatre gives in to Enya, and all my
Needs for rest finally make sense as I
Try not to close my eyes and leave my

Head somewhere between her shoulder
And chest, and ask anything that might
Listen not to, for the sake of ****,

Take me to anywhere that isn't where
She decides that we're listening to music
That is anything but us.

Strange name for a cat, I know.
She had the drawings and
Attitude of one.

The fact that she preferred to
Be left alone most times made
Her my little best friend.

Four years ago she fit in the palm
Of my hand. The last time I held
Her, only her head did.

No more pain free
Cures for what bothered her,
And yesterday no little black dot

Came bouncing across the field
At the sound of my car.
No tip of a tail dancing hungrily

Outside the glass door when I
Left this morning. Funny how
Two sleeping kilos can

Form such a presence in a room,
And their absence the same.
Caught myself about to fill her

Bowl when I got up, then told
Myself to man up and swallow
That lump in my throat

That I hadn't felt from the loss
Of an animal friend in
Decades.

It felt big enough to fit in
The palm of
My hand.

I just jumped on my
Bed for the first time
In 25
Years

For Erling


Eighteen years is nothing.
Even those that may pass
Between each time we
Meet over coffee
Are hummingbird heartbeats.

Such are the strings between
Brother hearts.
No room for discord;
Life never 'gets in the way', we
Just know:

The stars won't move an inch  
While we live. So let's just
Walk and watch them,  
Even be silent, and in that silence
Do all the catching up

We need:
These could be hurtful times,
But aren't.
As long as you can look up and
Smile at us all, I'm not

Going anywhere.

This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

I am a poet.
Only lie in
Writing.

The sound of her voice when
she finally calls.
the sound of the night as it
giggles and falls.

the sight for these eyes that are
bloodshot and sore;  
the sight of her eyes, saying
lonely no more, that

hold me with gazes across
any space, that trace this old face,
holding smiles in their place.
the holding she does with her arms

as I drift into slumber and sleep,
can both cradle and lift any man's
manly heart needing comfort and
rest. they keep any secret and

stand any test. I am drunk on her
skin, I am high on her smell. I am
demon in Heaven, she's angel in
Hell.

now fallen has night, and it fell on
its head. its lack of awareness  
envelopes our bed.
drifting off first, as so often I do.

it's the day's final words:
-I love you.
-I love *you.

To allow myself to be
Weaker than one
When I need to.

Green and blue joined
By red cabins
Against them both.

Skies and fields.
She yawns under my
Hand on the train.

Outside the other window,
The ancient snake of silver
River; no longer the

Highway, as in old
Days rich with
Boats and flotsam.

I cannot see a cloud.

She's a cat in the sun through
Glass; stretching, slight little
Clicks of joints and bones.

Leans her head
On my shoulder. Smells of
Shampoo and Summer-

Skin.
Is gone.

There are woods yet that
We're in.
Paths perhaps in shadows

We must walk
To get out,
Together. Still,

I cannot see a cloud.

What? A poem that's
Not about me?*
She says with a smile in her eye.

There are bigger things than
Us in the world.
Can't all be about you, I lie.

She leans over, her head
On my arm.
And ocean of crow 'gainst my face.

I turn and inhale like a
Man fresh from jail; an
Astronaut homecome from space.

I love how the wind can
Smell of the snow
That yet isn't flakes in the air.

But ******, I never was hooked
In this way; I cannot stop
Smelling her hair.

Smell of rainwater on a
Warm street.
Smoke rising from
Around our feet; small fires
Between dimensions
That hold pain
And relief
Simultaneously.

There should be
(Oh my God,)
An orchestra playing
(I'm actually)
Heartbreaking music
(Losing her.)
Like in a movie,

Not just her and
Me raining away
From each other
In this ****
Silence,

Where I'd rather be
Any one of the
Other people in this
Street
That have umbrellas
Over their hearts and heads,
And are free from
Ice and fractures
On the
Inside.

Oslo
Summer

Hot

I eat
Ice cream

Like a
Child

No. You don't need to
Lose that weight.
The world has millions of men
That worship women just like you.

And besides, there's nothing sexier
Than the smile of a woman
Who knows she is.

To hell with a thin waist.
Buy yourself something nice
Instead of diet pills and unrevealing
Garments.

Relax. Stop avoiding mirrors
And asking friends if your **** looks
Big in those jeans.
Smile and be alive; laugh with your
Stomach, -no man can resist
A straight back and head held high
In self-acceptance.

It's not your body's fault that
You are alone. It is the fact
That you *think
It is.

I cannot do this
With you.
I have nothing to run from.

You dream of escape.
A way out.
New, honeyscented beginning.

I like it here.
The bees all know
My name.

Though the days still carry our
Memories of Summer, nights
Now promise elseness.  

Inside, parts of my confused
Self long for icy blue skies,
Air so crisp you can

Crunch it between your
Teeth and your love
For Norway.

Other parts long for the
Midsummer sun of a body
Chasing anything arctic

Away with the swift brush
Of a slim hand finding
A face it loves

In the dark. Arctic. Ice blood.
Snow flesh. Wanting nothing;
None closer than

Outside.
I don't want to love right now.
Just to get snowed in alone,

Hoping for the sound of
A shovel, yet wishing it would
Miss my heart

By the breadth of a hairline
Fracture in
Something frozen

**** well
Nearly solid, yet
Breathing;

Basking in
Sub-zero
Solitude.