dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.

I’m tired of the way she treats his gifts,
He’ll give her a boat and away she drifts—
I can’t help I didn’t give her enough
Now he sees her lying to him—he’s calling her bluff.

He puts bracelets on her wrists
His charity persists,
He puts old hats on her head,
She’ll soon be overfed
His gifts can’t harbor the ship wreck
And look I’m sticking out my neck

Perhaps I can’t afford her
My broke *** just bores her.

Perhaps it’s more than that,
Perhaps it’s under the hat.
Perhaps her head is so done with me,
That the gifts he gives are guilt-free.
Perhaps I’m loosing sight,
Of the things they have so right,
Maybe they’re cleaning horse **** holding hands
Perhaps that’s what’s turning on her adrenal glands—

Gold digger, shallow to a point
Fishing for meaning, Heaven please anoint.
I think I get it, somewhere inside,
You pompous shallow ***** go run and hide.

Surf or skate, and fall and break
The waves will crush you over-take,
And when the good get’s going and I’m out of sight
You and He, will shrink into the night,
And in your heart, Gold digger
My purpose is always Bigger.

Because you love me without cash
But you treat me like your trash,
I’ll probably get in a car crash,
Running him over cause’ I’m just so brash.

This I will confess,
Your heads a ******* mess,
Unless you give up the gold,
Your heart and mine will grow even more cold.

I made a gold digger, ******* full of vigor,
She’s on a hairpin trigger, out to **** my rigor.
Gold digger, in love with all the stuff,
Gold digger, she can’t get enough.

There was once a small village in japan called enbizaka. It was peaceful and quiet, such is the way of small villages, where everyone knew each other and tragedies affected everyone. The news and gossip center was the Main Street where the artisans and shopkeepers heard everything.
   There was one shopkeeper that all the village folk knew for both her looks and her pleasant demeanor. The tailor of enbizaka was a beautiful woman with long pink hair and delicate sky blue eyes. Her name was Luka and her work was as we'll known as her beauty, making it possible for her to have nearly any man she desired. However, she need not desire for any man, for the man of her dreams was hers in her heart.
          Luka waited patiently every day to see her love walk into her shop and talk to her, but she could only wait for so long before she became suspicious of her love.
     The day started off just like any other day, tranquil and serene with clear blue skies and heron calls in the distance. Main Street was bustling with villagers, and having completed the orders she was given to do, Luka took a break to walk around the town. The villagers waved and some even bowed, greeting her with,"konnichiwa, Luka-sama!" She bowed back and spotted her love in the crowd. She felt nervous, blushed and slowly made her way towards him. As she got closer she noticed he that he wasn't alone. He was accompanied by a woman with short brown hair wearing a lovely red kimono.
     "Maybe they are just friends." She thought. That was until they kissed.
          Luka almost lost it. She ran through the town to her shop and locked the door, crying. It was dark before she managed to collect her thoughts and calm down. Later that night, she was busy mending a kimono, taking care not to hurt herself with the scissors. Her mother always said they were sharp. She remained vigilant in doing her work, even though her tears were clouding her vision.
         The next day the village was uneasy. It seemed there had been a crime committed. A woman was reported missing. Luka was upset along with the rest of the village, the woman had been a valuable customer and was always nicer while the rest of Enbizaka was uneasy, the main street was still full of people.
      "It is a lovely day for a walk in the gardens."Luka thought. She closed up,shop and went walking along the cobblestone path that lead from the town to the gardens. The villagers looked sullen and weren't as friendly as they had been previously. The gardens were nearly empty but they were made more beautiful in the silence. The green moss growing on the rocks lining the river was bright and healthy looking. The maples were fiery red and swayed gently in the breeze. Luka came to the bridge and saw the man again, looking rather depressed.
    "Who is that woman next to him!?"
The woman had lovely hair and the obi she was wearing was the same shade of green as the moss.
          "I see. So that's the type of woman you like." Luka said under her breath.
That night she worked, mending an obi, crying once more.
      "We're my scissors always this color?" She wondered aloud. She was remaining vigilant in her work, careful not to hurt herself. The scissors, if sharpened, cut smoothly.
        The next day the village was in chaos. It seemed another crime had been committed. Luka went about her day running errands and grabbing supplies for dinner when she noticed the man in the hairpin shop. He was buying a yellow ornate hairpin for a young looking girl.
                "What on earth- You really have no boundaries, do you?" She whispered as she passed him. He turned around confused, but having not seen who had said something, turned back to the young girl. Luka cried harder that night than she had the other nights. She didn't want the constant cheating of her love to continue.
    "Although he has a person such as I, he never comes home." She almost shouts as she works ******* the job she finds herself doing. The deep red on the scissors is concerning, but she works vigilant, ever careful not to hurt herself on them. If you sharpen them they cut smooth.
    She finally finished her job. Looking in the mirror, she smiled. "If you will not come to see me, then I will come to see you."
   The red kimono. The green obi. The yellow hairpin placed in her hair. She went up to the man and tapped him on the shoulder.
         "I've become a woman of your taste. Well? Aren't I pretty?"
                                                      .....................................
The next day the whole village was in an uproar. This time a man had been killed. The authorities say it was a whole family that had been murdered.
        "At any rate," Luka told herself as she was working on her new project,"He was acting so cruel, you know?" Her tears stained the blue cloth she was mending.
       "He was acting like I was a stranger.'How nice to meet you! Good afternoon!'" She sobbed. "He acted like I was a stranger."
She was vigilant with her work, scissors held hard in one hand. If you sharpen them, hey really cut smooth.

Fifteen years old and thinking I was older.
'Assistant Maintenance Man' at a Public School
Summer Camp. Billy Deitz had just graduated
High School, I thought him the coolest guy
I knew. The first week was ended, the little
kids gone home, a new batch in two days time.

We did our work, cleaned and swept, sweated
in the summer sun. Took the old surplus Jeep
over to the creek and plunged ourselves in.
Deitz had some beer in an Ice chest, I drank
one, my first ever. We shot his .22 for a while
and ate PBJs in the shade. Then we heard it.

A train horn in the mountains is a haunting
call. It does not seem to belong there among
evergreen trees and massive granite boulders.
We drove the hell out of the Jeep and found
our way to the down grade tracks. And there
she was maybe 50 cars long, snaking her way
from the summit of the Sierras out of California
into Nevada. Through the Pass over a hairpin
filled course hugging the skirts of the rock face
mountains, slowly rolling her massive load
pushing her four engines, breaks a screeching
in protest. "Click Clack, Click Clack", her steel
wheels clanging upon the rails, a rhythm like
her train heart beating.

Deitz grabbed his coat and tied it round his waist,
looped a canteen over his head, "Lets go kid!"
I did what he said, and then we were running
along beside the box cars, more a trot than a run,
"Do what I do!" Deitz yelled over his shoulder.
A flat car with some machinery approached and
He grabbed on to it and pulled himself aboard,
I copied his moves and he helped pull me up
and then there we stood on the deck of that
moving, mountain ship, with her grunting and
shaking under our feet. We could feel all her
massive weight and power vibrating up through
that wooden plank deck of the flat bed car,
entering our legs and spines. . . It was thrilling!

I had not had time to think all this through,
"Now what?" I asked some what perplexed
"Reno Kid." Deitz yelled with a grin.  

We climbed atop a Box Car, our rail bound
ship crawled out of the upper pass and we
started to descend towards Donner Lake far
below.

Looking behind and ahead it was hard to
understand how they had cut those tracks
out of solid granite rock and how the rails
maintained their frail finger tip grip on the
sheer mountain side.

We ducked nearly flat going through the snow
tunnels, the clearance was tight and it seemed
that a guy could lose his head. The diesel thick
air made us cover mouth and nose with our shirts.
Two tunnels in we noticed our faces getting
smoke blackened. We laughed at the joke.
Soot faced on a boxcar in a tunnel of wood.
Two city kids playing Hobo.

We reached the lower valley, passed the place
where the Donner Party met their grisly end.

Truckee was next and the highway grew close.
We got back down onto the flat car, hunkered
down by machine cargo, more or less out of sight.

I thought of all the down on their luck men that
had ridden those rails, not on a some lark. That
whole Grapes Of Wrath, Woody Guthrie period
of no joke, for real ****. Pushed by poverty and hope.

I must admit at that moment, I felt more alive than
at any other time in my life. I felt grown up, like a man.
Until my belly began to rumble, the speed increased
and the wind began to chill. The Click Clacks of the
wheels quickened and grew irritatingly redundant.
The loud wailing of the engine horn no longer exciting.
Now only hurt my ears.

It was dark by the time we hit Reno, we jumped off
before the train yard. Walked into town with its
bright lights calling the casino gamers to unholy service
and nightly prayer. Proceeded over by hard-bitten
dealers in communal black, with cigarettes dangling
from their unsmiling lips, possessing the empty
dead eyes of the badly used up and down-trodden.
Through the ***** windows, the people there seemed
to possess no joy in their sluggish endeavors.
Both players and dealers all losers, merely Automatons
of those despairing games of chance.

Reno was still rough-hewn in those days, a hard
scrabble place full of cigarette smoke, ******,
card tables, slot machines and not much else.
It seemed to reek of lonely desperation.

Having seen our soot ***** faces in the
window reflection, we washed up in the
cold river that runs through town.

We walked around, ate hot dogs,
Downed a Doctor Pepper.
"Now what Deitz?"
"**** I don't know kid,
first time I ever did anything like this."

"What?" My world collapsed right then,
I thought he was much more than
he turned out to be. Maybe everyone is.
I even started to get a little scared.
No money, no place to stay and apparently,
like most of the denizens there, **** out ah'
luck. I'd never felt that way before, from
mountain high to valley low in two hours.
All that excitement turned to Dread.

We hitched a ride with a long haired
guy of questionable gender, who kept
staring at me in the rearview mirror.
West, to a Truck Stop on the edge of town.
Found a trucker willing to give us a lift
back up to the summit.  Jumped in his rig
happy to find, that his cab heater worked.

Badly judged our get out spot, searched
and stumbled around in the shadowy dark,
dim moonlight looking for that **** jeep,
all that friggin' night.

When the guy that ran the camp returned
and found us sleeping at half past two,
in the afternoon in our tent, to say the least,
He was not amused.

Need I say, I felt much older that next day
and a little wiser too.

Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race

to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade

around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?

they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line

exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown

I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady

I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm

If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw

I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us

"The past is a bucket of ashes."

            1

THE WOMAN named To-morrow
sits with a hairpin in her teeth
and takes her time
and does her hair the way she wants it
and fastens at last the last braid and coil
and puts the hairpin where it belongs
and turns and drawls: Well, what of it?
My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
What of it? Let the dead be dead.
  
            2

The doors were cedar
and the panels strips of gold
and the girls were golden girls
and the panels read and the girls chanted:
  We are the greatest city,
  the greatest nation:
  nothing like us ever was.
  
The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
  where the golden girls ran and the panels read:
  We are the greatest city,
  the greatest nation,
  nothing like us ever was.
  
            3

It has happened before.
Strong men put up a city and got
  a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women
  to warble: We are the greatest city,
    the greatest nation,
    nothing like us ever was.
  
And while the singers sang
and the strong men listened
and paid the singers well
and felt good about it all,
  there were rats and lizards who listened
  ... and the only listeners left now
  ... are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
  
And there are black crows
crying, "Caw, caw,"
bringing mud and sticks
building a nest
over the words carved
on the doors where the panels were cedar
and the strips on the panels were gold
and the golden girls came singing:
  We are the greatest city,
  the greatest nation:
  nothing like us ever was.
  
The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.
  
            4

The feet of the rats
scribble on the door sills;
the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
chatter the pedigrees of the rats
and babble of the blood
and gabble of the breed
of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
of the rats.
  
And the wind shifts
and the dust on a door sill shifts
and even the writing of the rat footprints
tells us nothing, nothing at all
about the greatest city, the greatest nation
where the strong men listened
and the women warbled: Nothing like us ever was.

your hands were smooth in california but i miss them
rough, on mine, in toledo
and in far-off colorado where you decided
you wanted to learn how to ski
and i sat moody at the bottom until you flew down
to meet me,
and we swapped warmth and tongues and promises
because flying with you is the only way i’d ever let my feet
leave the ground.
and your palms were scraped and charred in california but
three years ago to date they were flat on my
chest when we moved together - in and around and
with each other
and you’d whisper love into my knuckles as i hummed you to sleep
because you might’ve learned to run but i’ve been
hobbled with you my entire life and ****, i’d die a thousand times over
just to see you smile.

Honourable Younger Sister,

This village is a world of stone. Lanes, houses, courtyard walls, towers, pavilions, tables, benches are all hewn from ancient red rock. The stone streets are lustrous with the passage of feet and shine in the moonlight; tomorrow they will glisten in the morning rain. After six days on the path into the mountains I finally rest at this inn. Here I can buy light: to write in this loft whilst the house sleeps, though a dutiful daughter dozes against the foot of the stair-ladder to serve me should I require sustenance. Frightened by my ugliness I summoned up my sweetest voice for her and soon there was a shy smile and downcast eyes. These are long nights for the village poor, but few here as poor as those whose shelters I sought on the path. Tonight I miss the steaming breath and ceaseless rustle of the animals brought indoors for warmth and security. My travelling robes are already filthy, but my body remains clean. As soon as I depart each night’s shelter I search for a stream to strip and wash thoroughly in the ice-cold water.

Dear sister, we have both been taught that the function of letter-writing is to unburden the mind of its melancholy thoughts in the form of elegant colours; its purpose to state one’s feelings without reserve. My thoughts turn constantly on whether I have it in me to ‘summon the recluse’. Have I the stamina, the patience, the resolve to seek out these elusive souls? Such thoughts induce fear rather than melancholy, fear of failure.

Already my journey into these mountains has crossed the season of late autumn into that of early winter. I am told the russet-red leaves and pink berries of the Ash, the deceptive Rowan and speckled-leafed Lace set the mountainside alight as the sun rises into a clear sky. For me clouds hang all day in the steep valleys, and so hide the heights where the solitary ones are believed to live. They alone see with the dawn the mountain peaks aflame   It is only in the very late afternoon that the sun melts the clouds, breaks through, and enlivens the landscape, turning it gold, then amber, and a final dull red before the blue blackness of dusk descends. Beyond this village my sources tell me there is real wilderness, and paths are few. I am to be my own guide.

You and I are so adept at the play of words. Our honoured father encouraged us, and as custodian of the Imperial Archives he knew how words could be arranged to both conceal and reveal; we played with the characters as other children played with coloured stones. So with the poems we call “Chao Yin”, let us play with verb “Chao” as both to seek and to summon. Chu Hsi, a courtier of that prince of Huai-nan, was sent into the wilderness to summon an errant official back to his post. His poems speak of terrors of the mountains, their ‘murky depths sending shivers of fright’ of ‘the caves of leopards and tigers’, and of the deep forest where ‘a man climbs from fear’. The poetic form uses “Chao” as in the ancient ceremonial song “Chao ***”. This calls on a dead person’s soul to re-enter the body, so ‘a summoning of the soul’. In those times such poems argued against the recluse, the withdrawn one, and sought a return. Today there is this feeling abroad that we need to consort with the recluse, to taste his solitude. Does the solitary life speak of the ineffable Way? Or is it in the search for the solitary one that a moment of enlightenment may present itself? As the saying goes: ‘to travel one must surely uncover truth’. In my bones I feel ready to invert this old poetic form. I must summon the spirit of the recluse out of the mountain fastness, but not seek his return. I need to touch his ways, see evidence of his mountain life, for a while to walk his paths breathing the same air. In my heart I expect nothing but his absence. I foresee I may reach his shelter and find his gate ajar, though the embers of the hearth still warm. He will be on some distant peak gathering herbs. If on a precipitous path I was to turn a corner and find him before me I have no words prepared. For the moment it seems I am exploring an idea through this summoning and seeking, not a living, breathing body.

Tomorrow I shall reconnoitre. My official hairpin and staff will command any audience, but for reliable answers, I am far from confident. There is always talk, rumours, sightings. The common people respect these beings as kindly mountain spirits and guardians of the wilderness. At the fork in a path, by the crossing place of a stream, corn, persimmons and millet are left for them. Such offerings will be replaced in time by the rarest mountain herbs, wild fruits, the skin of leopard or bear.

Your last letter spoke of ‘following my path into the mountains’. You have always defied convention, so it would be no surprise to find you here on my return, although I think your Lord would not sanction it. He would find such a request unfathomable. I am still perplexed at your situation, that you, the most homely of women should be so favoured, so adorned, and yet so free. It is that confidence you hold to yourself.  

To me, you have always been the essence of woman. What knowledge I possess of your kind comes from you alone. The infrequent gropings that occasionally present themselves I have only dismissed. An hour in your company smoothes and stills both soul and body. Your movements and gestures are always quiet and true, as are your woven words that sing in my memory on the path.

I read your letter
And savoured your words,
Your sorrowful songs of separation.
I can almost imagine your face before me
And I sigh and sob out of control.
When will we meet again
To amuse ourselves with prose and verse?
How can I tell you of my misery
Except with these woven words?

Have I remembered your poem correctly? I expected no response to my own lines on our separation. On the very morning of my departure your scroll arrived. I delayed to read it, delaying further to know your words: to carry them in my memory on my journey. In our respective verse we follow the way of tradition: the lonely woman in her room; the man travelling far from home. How many thousand poems describe this antithesis?

My life has always been sheltered by the expectations of scholarship, the requirements of official rank, and more recently acclaim due to my songs and poems. This journey begins a new page, as a seeker and summoner. Follow my path deeper into the mountains, be at my side when I rest, calm my fear of the heights and the depths of dark ravines, reveal to me the words to paint the scene. Know that I share with you everything that is to come, without reservation.

Remember the words of Lun Yu: ‘The good man delights in mountains. The wise man delights in water’. In these mountains the sound of water is present everywhere.

A stony spring rinses bits of jade
Minnows now and then emerge, and disappear.
Here what need of my silk-strung gujin? –
The mountain water has its own crystal song.

Your brother Zuo Si

there are so many of them
  and there is only less
  of me —

gondola in Venice,
  H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
  Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
   the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
  city buoys lacerating
the skyscape

and your coming in here
  ransacking all;
appeasements and
  trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
  and only less of me,

looking at all of you
  and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.

i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
  of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
   lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
  with clothes dull wielding the
     dull word?

meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
   of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
  streets of Vito Cruz.

   the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
  prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
  plodding the highway with sleek varmint
    demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
  her shoulder-blades.

what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
  with a dull heart?

there are so many of them for my
   territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:

     unheroic
        impinged
small
        half-drunk and
half-believing

  that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
   in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
   with an exorbitant outlay.

dog-leashes are expensive,
    moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
   moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
   the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
  and this thing of being me
     on the market marked: sun-stifled.

there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
  
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
       within a dull crowd?

When you look at me without
speaking like some doe-eyed
Guatemalan selling watermelons
on the corner of Forest Hill
and Military Trail, your
disbelief triggering in the hinges
of your jaw like a hairpin turn,
reaction time looming
as endlessly as a broken synthesizer,
I begin to need you, darling,
like the axe needs the turkey.

It didn't make sense
It felt Fingers
Chain link fence

So the moon dim
Gibbus tide riddle

Keep your wheel in the hairpin
Bite  a hook
You'll be my friend

Go ahead
Spike the ocean
A drop of salt blood
The wolf of horizon runs
Spilling fangs of
red dwarf sun

Can you water:
Crash against the rock
Until pieces of you break off
Pristinely lying on my skin

Think air until you hear
Grandeur breath of leaves
Mountain or dog
Sing songs of love

Goodbye
White cheek
Spun in moonlight
Foot to the path
Song on the tounge
Free til I'm dog
Whiskey til I'm drunk
Hold my breath
Count to ten
Blue eyes / begin again

Life wears me out with its
twists and turns, and
hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a
long, peaceful stretch
of highway, bathed in
the rising sun.
A golden wheatfield to
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.
The road turns to gravel,
and climbs rapidly uphill.
There are signs along the
way that promise the world.
The road gradually turns
to dirt, and ultimately
disappears.

Hot boys express emotion  
in the resonance and width  of their exhausts
in pipe dreams of measurement
in the rev and roar of super heated motors
mixing spark and sensibility
in the sudden screech and stretch of rubber
marking asphalt and *****-u-men
out there in the middle ground
where the road humps.  

Hot boys light up the night with high beams
cruise the darkest alleyways of masculinity
challenging old men at intersections -
in their soft leather seats and euro-neat boxes
of air-conditioned luxury and debt -
to pole position and the chequered flag of fortune.

Hot boys in cars that throb with bass notes
and bootilicious chick lyrics -
sung by black boys wicked in the zone
always bragging ’bout their bone
and how they make the ***** moan -
snarl abuse at walking women
fragile objects on the pavement shelves
shaped colour lost in time
that pass beyond their touch and reach.
                                                                                                  
Hot boys are tiny traces of an oil rich mixture
trailing blue smoke in their wake
foot to the floor high stakes, top geared no brakes
as they snake round the hills and the hairpin bends
as they wrap tight trees at the crash, crush end
and the hot boys cool in the night.

When the thieves broke in,
They broke my mother’s heart,
They broke my naiveté,
They broke my maternal lineage,

By making her closet bare,
She stood barely recognizing it,
Stared at her safe,
Her
Bulletproof
Fireproof    
Apocalypse proof
Safe
Code c r a c k e d,
Deadbolt door eerily open.

“It’s just jewelry,” she muttered,
        [Passed down from one generation to the next,
        Dating back to an invaded India,
        Surviving six hundred soldiers,
        Smuggled within folds of saris through seas,
        Stories etched in souvenir gold].

“At least we’re all safe,” she stated with conviction.
        [Yet I couldn’t help but feel,
        A physical furthering,
        From my immigrant ancestors,
        Who passed along secrets with every pendant,
        Who whispered hopes in every ornate hairpin,
        Who stored their aspirations in every accumulation:
        Real riches knit with poetic prospers from the past].

How funny
To imagine the thieves
Pricing a priceless object --
Ironically making it worthless
Because the burglary left behind
The heritage.

You have wrinkles at all the creases of your appendages, which gives me no other choice but to believe that angels were the ones to sew on your extremities. They took thread made of silk and carefully attached your body parts together, one by one. With one small kiss from above, the silk dissolved into your skin and the scars turned into wrinkles that i would someday memorize with my eyes closed. Not only did the heaven's create every inch of your body, but your soul as well. You're constantly telling me that old souls are common among those whose bodies look worn in close proximity. But in close proximity, i can't help but see lines of life, not death. You see tire tracks and old skin, but i see footprints in the sand and a body reborn. You see muddy brown pools inside of pure white, but i see a coconut cracked open to let the milk absorb into your body and maybe that's why you melt in my hands. Your voice is like the sound of every hello ever said to me at once. When you sing to me, i hear every soft "goodnight". I would always tell you to not let the bed bugs bite, and if they did, bite them back. But your teeth could never harm a being so vulnerable standing right in front of them, which is why i never bled because of you. I only received tiny black and blue marks on the soft flesh that connects my neck to my shoulder. When i sighed your name, my mouth tasted unworthy and frightened that if i spoke too loudly you might shatter. The thought of you is so fragile and intoxicating that i am consumed by you for hours even after you're gone, wondering if you're safe and tucked in your bed or if you're tucked inside of somebody else's. When i spoke to you, sunflowers sprouted from my tongue just so i could trap my words in something tangible enough to give to you by the handful. But mostly, i swallowed my words along with my pride and sunflower seeds that rooted into my spine. If you're quiet enough you can hear the stems snapping with all the pressure.

When I remember that angels created you, it also dawns on me that you must have fallen from the heavens. There is only two explanations that i could possibly think of for this: 1. You slipped out because you saw that i needed help. Because that is what we do, that is what humans do, they stay alive for each other. 2. You are the devil in disguise. I have to remember not to trust you because the devil was once an angel too. He was the most beautiful angel of all. And i can't help but think, as you lay in front of me with nothing but your grey bed sheets and a smile on your face, you are the most beautiful, astounding angel i have ever met; and i can't help but fear that underneath the hairpin curl of your lips is the devil's tongue.

To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"

Let not the deep cup be filled
with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
even before I was drunk.
Distant bells have already echoed
in the evening breeze.

My dream is broken
as the scent of incense vanishes.
Too small, the hairpin of the gold
of warding-off-cold
loosens its hold of my tresses.

I awake to find myself blankly facing
the red flickering glow
of the candle.

you were a reckless tearaway arriving
to take the heat with a debt reckoning
in Sunday skies marked for duckbill clips
of dark filled entries on its balance sheet
a challenging force I felt I had to account for
a raincheck that I wanted to cash in on
before the heavens opened and blew me away
knocking at my door for a riot of rebellious
adult licence needed
love to be let in

you agree we meet outside in the gathering storm
for there's a multitude of conflicts to be resolved
stark contradictions and that's what excites
with you there's upsetting imbalance involved
upending equilibrium with blunt direct questions
and reactions like a Luddite with the mind of a librarian
so that I never quite know where you're coming from
but know the answer is next
written bold on the sheet
which has your signature on
I predict with a scrawl
but that you think
is kinda neat

"throw me every strain of emotion you can pick up"
and you do and your wake never lets me down
propelling a wet film wind machine
should I withstand its crazed delivery?

those sheets of rain that blew in
off the bay
you always try
your best to tear
across
I feel them shooing the air
into my lungs
winding up branches faster and faster
like a toy plane rubber band
dancing in my hair
this way then your way
until it stood on end
scared
to not go on and on
the way of so many plucking ideas
drawn from the spoils
of let's-play-chicken arts
found on the tables of tattoo parlours
when the shades roll down
and pages flick quickly as dices roll out
extremes in exfoliating salon sport
close shaving loose leaves off every hairpin bend
and scratching the bald patch
ever more bold
as if you liked transplanting bulbs
follicles in deep crimson beds
of eye poppy temperatures gone wavering

impossible to ignore in a flash of eye shadow
from a bouncy bobbing weaving
pony tale conductor
keen to take on electric vaults
showing me a pair of high heels
whatever
I ****** at your scurrying reins
my grasp like a wind slipping
through a shake of tussled vanes
black curls of wild abandon
whipped up into a shift dress
in shades of grey flight
centred in misplaced miss red
lipstick outline worn to a fade
over the top of the roots
rushes **** the breeze with pollination
as full on as a full Brazilian headdress
collected from a gazillion dipping flowers
a rainbow opening to shower off
it's end in privacy
high pitched screens

little cover in those shorts of ours
from a summertime blanket of rain
which you turned up to cloud my thighs
always thrown over and folding your way
ace-of-***** cards played torn
and ragged with bare laced love
thrown down with on-the-river sneers
cornered with those winking semi-colon smiles
open ended to point out the end will be fun
but I get your gusting gist in the mean time
determined to wheedle the worst in me out
which looking up is on its way now
and when the lightning will stop dancing
is a rough reckoning I'm not ready to say
but in the eye of this exciting storm
it's clear
not tissues not anything
need wipe these slate skies clean
from our trail blaze
my tearaway

They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.

Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.

Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.

Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.

This translation machine is broken-
trying to say love and it says hate
put in a phrase of friendship tokens
and it levels one at hell's gate

"New-Speak" and Homeland insecurities
una máquina rota, spells of discontent
What breaks borders other language;
Is it bred of complacent, lazy lengua ?

Languishing in privileged syllables
boiling over rice stew vocabularies
slamming with a hip-go spiritual
trying to make sadza in this crucible

This hairpin empire vomits convolutions
history, her-story, suffer culture's debt
education's deficit mouths a babble revolution
while a classicist argument tattles future threats

Talk a tale of totem's gift in parable or song
spill some beans and climb a stalk up a golden path
Give tongue your peace with liberal speech along
while some may grunt we sing a verdant poem

-cec



sadza - in Shona, Ugali in East Africa, is a cooked cornmeal that is the staple food in Zimbabwe and other parts of southern and eastern Africa. This food is cooked widely in other countries of the region. Sadza in appearance is a thickened porridge.

"The first time I saw her...
Everything in my head went quiet.
All the tics, all the constantly refreshing images just disappeared.
When you have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, you don’t really get quiet moments.
Even in bed, I’m thinking:
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
Did I lock the doors? Yes.
Did I wash my hands? Yes.
But when I saw her, the only thing I could think about was the hairpin curve of her lips..
Or the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek—
the eyelash on her cheek.
I knew I had to talk to her.
I asked her out six times in thirty seconds.
She said yes after the third one, but none of them felt right, so I had to keep going.
On our first date, I spent more time organizing my meal by color than I did eating it, or ******* talking to her...
But she loved it.
She loved that I had to kiss her goodbye sixteen times or twenty-four times if it was Wednesday.
She loved that it took me forever to walk home because there are lots of cracks on our sidewalk.
When we moved in together, she said she felt safe, like no one would ever rob us because I definitely locked the door eighteen times.
I’d always watch her mouth when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked—
when she talked
when she talked;
when she said she loved me, her mouth would curl up at the edges.
At night, she’d lay in bed and watch me turn all the lights off.. And on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off, and on, and off.
She’d close her eyes and imagine that the days and nights were passing in front of her.
Some mornings I’d start kissing her goodbye but she’d just leave cause I was
just making her late for work...
When I stopped in front of a crack in the sidewalk, she just kept walking...
When she said she loved me her mouth was a straight line.
She told me that I was taking up too much of her time.
Last week she started sleeping at her mother’s place.
She told me that she shouldn’t have let me get so attached to her; that this whole thing was a mistake, but...
How can it be a mistake that I don’t have to wash my hands after I touched her?
Love is not a mistake, and it’s killing me that she can run away from this and I just can’t.
I can’t – I can’t go out and find someone new because I always think of her.
Usually, when I obsess over things, I see germs sneaking into my skin.
I see myself crushed by an endless succession of cars...
And she was the first beautiful thing I ever got stuck on.
I want to wake up every morning thinking about the way she holds her steering wheel..
How she turns shower knobs like she's opening a safe.
How she blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out candles—
blows out…
Now, I just think about who else is kissing her.
I can’t breathe because he only kisses her once — he doesn’t care if it’s perfect!
I want her back so bad...
I leave the door unlocked.
I leave the lights on."
Neil Hilborn

Life wears me out with
its twists and turns
and hairpin curves.
I keep waiting for a long
peaceful stretch of
highway, bathed in
the rising sun;
a golden wheat field
to the left, a moss covered
pond with dragonflies to
the right.

The road turns to
gravel and rapidly
climbs uphill.
There are signs along
the way that promise
the world.
The road becomes narrow,
turns to dirt,
and ultimately disappears.

Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.

The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.

This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long  bitter winter.

The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence  of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.

Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,

Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.

Another day starts
another night gone
where did the time go?
where did I go wrong?
missing my former self
like a long lost friend
but I wish him good health
can only reach him by pen
I haven't slept yet
there's one letter I gotta send
can't look in the mirror
too tired, when is it gonna end

a thousand questions no answers
why the **** am I like this?
a life is built on little chances
maybe it's genetic, fantastic
if I had kids and they got this
if I had a mind then I've lost it
if I can't bare the pain myself
how can I share this sadness?
but I already do
because it's madness for two

to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to the meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I love ya

to the thing I am
to the man I was
the pressure is pressure
and I'm a hairpin trigger
something hard yet soft
like my wasted brain
when will I go off?
every suicidal thought
has got me caught off guard
nobody said it would be easy
never said it would be this hard
feel like I'm watching my life
end from afar, everyday is
an outer body experience
restlessness got me delirious
and I just thought about death
again so this could be serious

Can't see a way out today
chemical imbalances are not okay
stopped taking my meds
want to lose the fight my way
**** what the doctors say
it's all well and good to say
it helps to talk to someone
but I can't find the words today

to my mother, I love ya
to my father, I love ya
to my sisters, I love ya
to my girlfriend, I love ya
to my friends, I love ya
to my meds, I love ya
to my docs, I love ya
to my former self, I miss ya

Likewise, or
So flustered got her bewildered
About pins and needles

How could he the knock-wood
my piece quoting her,
Your my pin flower near
the pin Oaktree
Wishing upon me
The woodsy-star* riddle

Not very far they see the castle
Her sticky glued shut eyes

So delicately-pinned cries
Her pincushions like
pinwheel's of flower
He bloomed right in
Pinnochio the falling star
Trying to pick up her
jeweled pin but the
hardwood
hammered
him in
Pinnochio was left
there saddened  in
a bin
Like a mix up your
dukes up
What a fluke-prize
The gift came and went

The passionate
((Pin)) handshake
Handling with care
His wooden hand
I Pincurls she's the bay
fantasy night
land

The country-girl acts
So picky meeting
the right
heart positively
She feels she always
right so conceitedly
"I Charmed" repeatedly
At times jittery but Smitty
Any wood could talk
she knocks them pin pretty

The wood cradle of hay
What a pity she's born to
be witty
What a highboy she's
the tomboy why?

Not a Momma and
the Papas boy
Miss wooden chair
With her overall pants
Consider yourself corduroy
The woodsy Troy
He loved his
rocking horse
Met Jimetty cricket
That carved
*******, he sneaked
something Oliver twist
in his pocket

Perky pin of hats joy
Real McCoy but he's
the wooden boy

Gheppetto with his
wooden pipe Oh! Boy
The wooden
soldier boy
Cracking jokes
Nutcracker
marching
Woody Chuck is
quite the inspector

A house is not a home
Everyone smokes

Robin Hood
What a wooden hole of a
glitch for the gals so plastic
King Charles hunter
Mr.Geppetto needed a
miracle (Holy) thunder
Not a human on
facebook to wonder

Her X-husbands playing
X-infinity such activity
Picture zoom in
"Just Dream" of a
wooden dollhouse
Without your
spouse

Email or wifi
Legs were creaking
and Pinnochio say Hi
his nose was love-longing

The desk was
a bad omen flying
Inked pens and
Wood Chipping
The Woodpecker
Ancient wood heart
locket

His wooden head
wouldn't
fit into the socket

Woodcarved body
lines frame was
Eye pin curving and
stripping

The snoop dog
His paws got into
Pinocchio's puzzle
Hungry cry like a
Wolf Tie one on
Lie one con
Con one peeping Tom
Pinnochio his nose
is getting graphically
Longer Sherlock
  Magnifying nose
Like a calendar
  year whole pin
ball wizard
new nose longer
lucky 8 oddball months

She left his schoolboy
clothes on the wooden
hanger

Ringo met Pinnochio
They had something
in common the nose
has wisdom

Ghepetto and Giovanni
Battista looking for Julliete
loved classical she-devil
the cafe barista met her
Romeo

This wasn't the year
for a cup of the nose
Cappuccino
Go-Chopin he looks
frazzled
The Cook beef barley
soup

Pinned and looped me in
Her maple eyes to
  fit any tree
Her juices of bacon
Went timber chuckle
what was on his
wooden buckle
I pinned him

Pinnochio revival
Reversal or rehearsal
Get rid of the humans
Metaphyseal, things
So gray beyond any
sea cloud seal not real
If the wood could talk his
wooden rifle bang bang

Like a red white and
wood little boy blue
missile he sang
They were in school
time for dismissal
The wood is
productive

Christmas heart of light's
seductive
Flame on the fruit bowl
they weren't
watching the
Super Bowl

Strong bones with a
wood conscience
To have swooned into a
wood puzzle

  The damsel what distress
Like a hammer and nail
Buckled her smile
wood dress
They were nose long
For the devil in the
blue dress
Xmen Wolverine

The hard talker smooth
as a babies safety pin drop
Oakwood Knight
the lock opened the
****
Pinnochio looked
Like a shocking pink

Someone lied again
Her hairpin splinter
Pinnochio how he
got covered
All white flurries
star flakes of winter

Pour the milk with cornflakes
Watch out for Mr. Quaker Oats
The wolf eyes get to you
So timid to be starved

Like his fern another turn
of the century
The rim of the goblet
on the brim of time so
sublime banged his
wooden pencil
Italian art drawing
stitched stencil

But with hesitation wood
At its best the most clever
Was heavenly touched
by God like no other
Pinnochio has a heart
He carves a smile in you
You just feel him so true

Still lanky dude with the long hair
Still can't tell you when, but I'm getting there.
Still the best poet you ever read.
Still don't think you'll read it till I'm dead.
Still gassing up past 3 AM
Still saying "Won't fall in love again."
Still waking up from the same dreams
Still getting air when I try and scream
Still wanna **** up a KMart
Still wanna skip to the next part
Still got a problem with some folks
Still tryna swallow and just choke
Still poor, still *****, and still tired
Still last resort if you need a ride
Still driving off of the Hairpin
Still hope the car lands in heaven

Still the one that loved you despite all of the pain
Still pulling the heart together, next is still the brain
Still the beating of it, stop it dead, leave it there to rot
Still wonder if you ever gave it a second thought

Still fighting toys in the playroom
Still saying "we're gonna move soon"
Still getting kicked out in August.
"Still this isn't breaking my promise."
Still smoking out in the same seats
Still hiding under the bedsheets
Still hit a home run in most cases
Still gotta touch all four bases
Still don't have the words for this feeling
Still tryna peel me off of the ceiling
Still chew my teeth instead of food
Still try to learn like I'm in school
Still hate the face in the mirror
Still my vision only gets clearer.
Still wanna ruin a Wal-Mart.
Still gonna race with the shopping carts.
Still scaling the shelving in home decor
Still can't go back, still banned from the store

Still gassing up past 4 AM
Still city streets, devoid of men
Still have to make wrong a few rights
Still, like a deer in headlights.

Last night I broke my heart
As I realized my road is meandering
So I decided to burn the highway
Alone
I reckon I once set out at dawn, when the sun was still
no where around
But you came with the daylight, or did the sun come chasing me, with you?
We rode through a pleasant morning
And through a sunny noon
Even through wild jungles
As the raindrops tainted our skin
Oh and when the clouds climaxed
How our thirsty lips sinned
You held me warm in your embrace
Through the coldest of nights
And as dawn knocked on our door again
We set out to burn the road, yet again
But it's been a while, I've been riding
I don't see you by my side
Or in my way, not even in the rear view
Maybe you'll meet me at the crossroads
I think, I hope...as I cross many roads
With your thoughts crossing my mind
Our paths...not yet, no
Oh but I'm closer to a turn now
It's a hairpin and I'm perhaps at 100kmph
If I see you there, will I be able to stop?
Will I skid or run you over, I know not...
Maybe I should just...stop!

The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.

The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.


Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.

A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!

-Subhanjan Saha

my feet are planted on these wooden planks,
the very separation of the soil beds and the stream. your hand’s quick to envelope mine in its warmth. dandelions dance with the cacophony of the breeze. the lighthouse stands tall a few distances from where we stood.
the sky gets littered by colors, sons and daughters of the sun bidding their farewell
everything within the expanse of the lakeshore showered in their translucence-
and quite frankly darling, we’re left with no exception.
you were staring off the distance
and in that moment you were almost miles away-but i didn’t mind,
for i was too mesmerized by the calmness
you were pulled under, the amber gold canvas bleeding in with the havoc it was pierced with.
i swear it was there where we’ve been in our safest state.
maybe that was our arrival to the once unknown destination we were targeting to be in all our plans to run away, fake our deaths.
we were a world away back there
and despite the sun sinking,
it breached the start of a hundred different voyages.
your presence was the closest i’ve felt to home.

in the expanse of a moment we were something more-something more than our sadness and all that we’ve stored in folds within the silhouettes.
and to a random onlooker,
we were just two kids content on being stupid and naive out on a chase for an i don’t know why the **** i’ve been put in this sick sad world but maybe we can stick together and make it ‘til we’re grey sort of happy ending.
to anyone else we weren’t anything but misfits, a pair lacking sense, knowing no better, junkies screaming out pent up emotions to rock songs on rooftops
or taking hairpin turns on 4am roadtrips that fueled the adrenaline.
thrill seekers, jaded
to anyone else, we were nothing more than a reckless pair almost making their way to the big screen or a typewritten poem the paper creasing on the edges.

but there we were made out of the sunset way past sets of bones and fractures by the sky,
the sunset looked like us.
now it’s months later, and we’ve let everything fade,
scratched out all that we’ve casted on the future, of long forgotten lullabies, null whispers- you’ve erased all our texts and chats,
in turn i have thrown out the flowers you picked and your book recommendations, the diy polaroids piled up in a box.
i stopped listening to all the songs you’ve sent. the curtains in my bedroom no longer match the shade of your hazel brown eyes.
the places i once brought you to are now ghost towns you’d get glimpses of in postcards 50 years from now-
at least that’s how they’re portrayed in my mind. but not without taking a drive, letting my footsteps baptize the ground they trample on with a feverish kiss,
one more time, one last time
clearly you’ve chosen to vanish, no traces left for a breadcrumb trail after that night at the diner where we spilled our closures
delivered with so much declaration,
leftover longing left caged in glassy eyes the whole time.
you stormed away with the last pieces of vulnerability, everything done with one final cruel exchange, just like that,
all my drunk texts a non-stop desperation reeking of “i love you’s” left to no reply;
that should signify that we’ve gone unto depths just to burn all our remnants
-maybe you more than i did.

here we are, free of the artifacts pointing back to each other,
from everywhere we’ve ever been
only to be proven of its blatant wrongness;
for we’ve forgotten about the sunsets but it sure as hell wouldn’t allow itself to be put to rest,
and it does the same thing with everything once marked by it.
you’re no longer here and our shadows have long unlearned the dwelling
once found on each other’s spines.
and maybe this you that never vacated my head even now, the one i couldn’t just bring to hate even after you’re no longer the you breathing softly beside the girl with twilight underneath her eyes.
but darling, the afterglows would pursue each time the sun sets;
each time, it unearths the glass shards from our fights and the longing and the butterflies crumbling onto chaos, our aftermath.
i no longer have an idea if you still marvel at the quiet like you once did,
as i stood there in the shades reflected by the currents under rushing with their beating.
“now we’re worlds away but sunsets still look a lot like us.”

I miss your absence like curdled milk misses it's white. I miss the sourness of your hair running through my fingers.

I miss your absence like an anorexic misses their bones. They go searching for them, ripping up flesh and drinking water in place of anything, filling the hole in their mind that can't be filled with cake. The sweetest of chocolate cake, frosting topped grave marker. It can't be filled. Cannot be filled.

I miss your absence like winter misses her green. She covers it up, buries it beneath such a heaviness. It sits upon her chest like white elephants.

You hold yourself like a hairpin turn. You are sore, aching from sleeping on your stomach too long. You are swaddling your hunger in loneliness. You are the weight of every divorce paper filed in Massachusetts. You are Greece's longing for her peace. You are finding yours in the light, dark suffocates your water balloon lungs. Your wiry, 6 foot frame is suffocated by 120 pounds. You are suffocated by me. I am filling my lungs with water, holding my head under what is blue and the waves crash over my spine like clockwork. I count to 3, I pass out and see your face in front of me, pale and gasping. I am hungover on Windex. I make bleach cocktails like mother makes her with anything she can find before she kisses her knuckles.

I don't wait for winter to come, I dig into the earth and find her, beg her to cover me in what will not melt. I beg for a grave as infinite as the fear that shakes me. I wish I could be alone, dear nature, why does responsibility choke me? Why does terror and trauma push its teeth into me like a wolf into sheep? Why can't I sleep without awaking? Why?

I love the two wheeled demons
they are in my soul waiting
to let fly
all my inhibitions
I have studied them
coveted them
but the courage to be free
defeats me
as I see the smiling face of death
on the first hairpin bend

a Norwegian
fjord did
cut their
axel's hairpin
in the
row of
tundra that
Lapland was
their arcane
balloon on
Aegean shore
if Barents
Sea burgeoned
dialect herd
yelp in
Mike Pence
with accord.

She sang for the birds,
dancing like flaxen wind,
sunshine-bright and gently
waning.

she twirled like golden leaves
and laughed like stilled ripples of water--
the hairpin curve of her mouth
tilted up in the parody of a smile.

And in the depths of night,
you fell softly in love
with the sound of her silence,
echoing like the wilting feathers
of a songbird
who can sing no more.

Italy's Capri admirably fits the bill as an enchanted island,
Nestled in the Bay of Naples, it's apt to call it wonderland,
It is famous as a coastal resort and a celebrated beauty spot,
Little wonder of it being touristy and a location often sought

The isle is seriously beautiful, sans any blemish in its splendor,
So little room for any shortcoming, chances of which are slender,
Breathtaking views from any angle makes Capri appear so scenic,
Futile to draw comparison to any other isle that is so panoramic

Capri is known as the isle of the sirens in Greek mythology,
It has very little to do though with any aspect of theology,
Long considered a preserve of celebrities and the super-rich,
The small precipitous island is a must-visit travel agent's sales pitch

Accessible only by ferry or hydrofoil from Naples and its surrounds,
The idyllic isle with sheer cliffs and dazzling seascapes visually astounds,
Steep cliffs rise majestically from an almost impossibly blue sea,
That the isle has that tangible deluxe feel, is for all to see

The island has a mythical charm with its jaw-dropping natural beauty,
Stunning landscapes from rocky caves to the horizon's edge lend to the popularity,
Shimmering sea views, secluded grottos lure visitors in droves to be on board,
Amazing cuisine, world-class shopping are bells and whistles; lest you get bored

Blue Grotto is an oceanic cave at the water's edge with an opening to the sea,
Optical effects created by sunlight bouncing on the cave walls, is a sight to see,
Water lit turquoise hues from below, by the sun, creates a magical atmosphere,
Shimmering cobalt-blue light images beckons us to a virtual optical stratosphere

Through the water on the floor of the cave, Roman remains are clearly visible,
Supposedly used as a bathing place by Emperor Tiberius, a reason nigh plausible,
This lagoon was probably a Roman villa with statues decorating the whole floor,
Other entrances to the grotto were created to improve irrigation, per Greek folklore

Capri's standout are three rocky peaks emerging from the azure blue water,
Called the Faraglioni, the limestone stacks are discernible to any spotter,
Formed by erosion, separated by water thro' collapse of solid land mass,
Emerging as steep rocks rising out of the sea, surprisingly not as a morass

La Piazzetta, aka chiazza, is a bustling diminutive square in the heart of Capri,
Table settings of the handful of cafes are meant for one to be carefree,
The colorful clock tower chimes every quarter hour throughout the day,
With thronging crowds at all times, little surprise why the place holds sway

Post ferry drop-off at Marina Grande, a road trip from Capri to Anacapri is a must,
Brace yourselves for a 3-km. stretch of hairpin bends en route in the mini bus,
On the slopes of Mount Solaro and at a higher elevation than Capri,
The more authentic side of the island and less crowded, is Anacapri

Piazza Vittoria in Anacapri town is the bustling bus stop square where one alights,
Sauntering thro' colorful bougainvillea, geranium festooned lanes is sheer delight,
Behold a mix of Neapolitan tailor shops, artisan shoemakers and souvenir shops,
Enjoy the aerial whiff of the town's lemon groves pervading everywhere, nonstop

Museum of Villa San Michele is a building articulating at various levels,
Ancient artifacts, Roman paving, marble columns are sights that revel,
An elevated garden with granite Sphinx and Greek tomb is a perfect setting,
For a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples below, that looks so enchanting

Continuing downhill, the Church of Santa Sofia is the pride of the town,
The adjoining Piazza Armando Diaz bustling with activity is a place of its own,
Locals chatting and reading newspapers presents such a wonderful sight,
Seated on hand painted majolica benches, as if conveying life is so bright

A visit to Capri is incomplete without tasting the famed Caprese salad,
The taste is so exquisite that one tends to break into a ballad,
Tomatoes, milky mozzarella, aromatic basil leaves are the sole ingredients,
A drizzle of sharply flavored olive oil does little to serve as an impediment

Restaurants abound the lanes with crowds' incessant chatter,
Panino Caprese being made in a jiffy is no laughing matter,
So popular is the salad that it can be found on every menu,
Strolling along past excited visitors, makes for the perfect milieu

It is with a heavy heart that you ferry back to mainland at the trip's end,
While enjoying the panoramic stunning views again, as if there's no end,
It is not without reason that Capri's famed "cliff beauty" is so majestic,
The only describable feeling of the experience is that it is "ecstatic"!

The receding horizon,
The fading light of day,
Azure taking a livid hue.
Pokhran's hot, scorching sand,
A lash on our moribund logic.
Death and Life, Life and Death-
Religion and Atheism, Nobel and Booker,
Make us proud and shiver,
Make us happy, rob us of gaiety,
Shoot all our fragile hopes to artistic acme.
Smash all our favourite dreams to smithereens.

The Ganga meanders amidst a maze of
Ripples, crest and trough-
With a dour askance,
With a nonsensical exterior,
At the dead of night,
The hoary-headed ***** rises,
To take stock of pelf,
He keeps in hiding,
Looka yonder, the man with a rice plate in his shack
Stirs out of his lumber, in a jiffy,
Dawns cracks, leaves rustle, breezes whistles,
The nightingale still chirps coo, coo, coo....
Breaking the calm of a nostalgic daybreak.

Love buffoonery, antics of sweet urchin,
Effrontery, betrayal, self-destructive urge,
Blinds love toting niggling details of despair
In it's womb.

A silver of modernism, none can deny,
Gleaning the core of every 'ism' in it's *****
Roads, alleys crisscross, end of tunnel seems dark.
At least, a hairpin bend,
Across the debris of a fresh landslide,
A ray of hope, a shaft of optimism,
A changed universe, a reclaimed Utopia.
Coming true!




-Subhanjan Saha

She has resurrected;
My beautiful Lazarus,
From the depths of time
From the heights of the heavens,
The stars that shower over
Like snowflakes in the winter
A white blanket
With the warmth of a hearth's fire,
Twinkle and sparkle
A serenade of light;
And this is just
From the dazzle in her eyes,
A smile
Like Spring's first glow,
And a radiance
Like a sunrise
Melding with the ocean's horizon,
And hills
That curve
Sweeter than hairpin turns,
This is her
Perennial shooting star...

APAD13 - 152 © okpoet

Annie darling,

We may not be able to build the space ship you wanted
It's not that you weren't a good girl,
nor was it because you didn't pass the soccer trials

We may not also get you the hairpin you wanted,
the one encrusted in silver,
lined with satin
and chiseled by the finest sculptor

Once again, it wasn't because you forgot your homework
nor was it because you yelled at me


Annie darling,
We love you.

Just maybe not today.