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.

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Yesterday folds our vital documents
into its briefcase and steps onto a busy street.
Busses lunge on asphalt, rolling
knotted muscles and emptied pockets deeper
into roads where dogs and paper
blur the lines between news and ****.
Lovers, condos, taxis, and sidewalks
pray to scrape up rent. Tomorrow crouches, ready to spring
and ****** us back into the boxing ring.

I sit at the Earth's end,
an old, fractured, water-worn dock
cradles me and fixes the scene.
Yellow sails swimming the jetstream
hang on to the red dinghy whose wake
sets my eye upon the far shore.

     Coney isle ‘cross the murk-warped sea
     holds ancient homes like a tapestry
     holds ancient threads that you can see
     in some museum for a fee.

For the residents at Rosses Point
this is no end –
                          wit starts their children’s dreams
and holds them to life,
roots them in communal grasses
that grow and will always grow.
                                                       I didn’t know
that where the ****-stalk masses
life’s abundances overflow.

But where are their riches?

Cast in ditches by roadsides
where three hundred years of smiles,
vein-pulsing beliefs, busy thinkers,
sweet upswept streets,
all put wealth –
                           the heaping of coin
upon coin till nothing can breathe –
aside and laugh. They live,
surviving as they happen.

Inside the crumbled watchtower
I fling passion onto thought
onto nerve onto pen onto page
and then am limp,
like the carelessly treaded sage:
a child’s footprint.

     What anguish did the watchers know
     looking through the barred stone walls,
     their travelers still gone?

In the swirling, swallowing night,
that drops like the judge’s gavel,
I write images of the sundry
numb-fingered seaside –
                                          the birds call through the salt-stained air.

Fly, fly till you reach my words
that are split among a thousand minds and cities.
Fly till the grass overcomes the tread,
till the sun succumbs to lead
poisoning and dawn’s jaw drops dead.

The lighthouse, the sprinkling showers
from the clouds that shroud and mask
the would-be sky, guide
the heart that falls inside my throat –
                                                                two hundred tons of blood
beat through its bulge –
                                         I’m alive
and live on, like this unhampered ground.
The sound of ripples and the rustle
of reeds bring me back
to the time-broken dock.

I sit and remember my friends –
                                                       calmness soaks in and through my bones –
I am and will always be;
and when memory fails and fades
I will float the channel of everything,
beach upon this shore
and will be the grass and nothing more,
till history becomes the future
and the first layer becomes the core.

Oh I do like to be in the countryside
where the branches bash against the windows of the bus
where the leaves on the boughs of the trees bow so low
that I feel I have to duck.

Where people know me almost better than I know myself
I can gesture to my figure when Brigitte says
"have you eaten?"
and she will reply
"but that means nothing."

Where I can tell Tracy all about my life
and she won't judge,
will look at me with the same quiet smile,
the same laughing acceptance
as she ever has, since the day we met.

Where Cindy and Cathy sit talking about the world
and tell me of their troubles
because they know I'll understand.

Where the sea pounds gently in the distance
whipping the wind sometimes into a frenzy
and molding my hair into a salt-ridden sculpture
on my head.

I don't miss it
when I'm in the city
on the contrary, I love the beat of the sun on the concrete,
the thrash of the trains in the distance,
even the wheezing exhaust fumes
feel like they fit somehow.

But it's nice to be back sometimes
where the trees still grow on the roadsides
where the fields are green even in winter
where the pubs are cozy and quiet
like their clientele.

I went back there today
and I loved it like always
I loved it as ever
I love it still.

the ecosystem that young children
wake up on Tuesdays
before dawn to try & save
treading muddy gray roadsides
spiriting away cigarette butts
faded azure beer cans
thin shopping bag ghosts
with tiny gloved hands—
this cracking frost-heave
pavement landscape
is my body

my body is the first gasping crocus
the first chanting insects,
the first murdered fieldmouse
after waking

is the first meal
of a young owl,
all fluff and down and bone,
high in a skinny birch tree
and still a-feared of foxes

my body is hot loam
is fevered asphalt
is a feeding garden
& my soul…

my soul
is the beating sun,
undecayed, though tarnished
by weeks
maybe months
behind curtains of Winter

my soul separate
from my body
for so long…
and yet

it could have dined with God
and married His Daughter
before anyone thought to go looking

Do green fingers still pull triggers?
Or do they only till the fields of hair?
Ploughing furrows of worry through thinning follicles,
Tangled knots of concern, snarling their path from the true.
Or can they only point accusingly,
Trembling fists beneath pointed judgements?
Hoping the directions sought by those lost,
Do not lead them down the garden path of violence.
This is for a man who takes nurturing into his hands.
A man who believes that the Kingdom of God can be found on earth.
A man who is determined to labour here in this the city of his birth
To cultivate the hope that springs eternal.
Changes part of the faith in his dreams to piece together his reality;
A world without violence.
These hopes are sleep sent for certain.
But his hands are sandstone
So when he rubs the rest from his eyes
He's only shaping his wishes into something less fleeting
For sure, his resting place is a flower bed
cos he wakes plants from their sleeping.

For each shoot that doesn't fire and grow
And each root that doesn't take hold and show
Each colour he knows they're capable of,
feels like a personal blow to all the effort he's put in.

This is the last gardener of Aleppo
His name is Abu *** and he is sick of watching his city fall apart
Ash Shabbah – the city of white soil and pale marble
Now  the white of ash, pale of face and fearful.
Once sanctuary against war,
Now this may as well be the last garden in the world.

He tells us “flowers help the world and there is no greater beauty than flowers”
And so for years, as his city suffers pallid,sickly but not bloodless,
He makes bouquets by roadsides for those who chose to stay
or have nowhere else to go,
or have left but their bodies remain,
And whose only beauty is ribcage grown

He wreathes his arm around the world
Turns our world into a garden of funeral tributes,
appreciated only now
In stark contrast to the destruction that never ceases.

He tends to carry on conversations with the dead
Motionless beneath the surface.
Friends or strangers
Rubble roused and fleeing, now their journey ended
Escaped as best they could, holding flowers in hands
 as he tends his garden still.

It’s a losing battle, lost
How only weeds grow through the cracks that civilization left .
Lichens lasting forever whenever they find the surface to hold onto long enough in this turmoil.
Though he pines for lillies;
 White crocus and daisies grow best in rebel held streets.
No matter.
He makes the dinner he deserves
fragrant with rosebay willow herb
And sage for remembering
But he can’t help but develop a bad taste in his mouth .
He has no taste for retribution
And he has nothing to cleanse the palate,
Of the pungency of despair,
The starvation of the soul.

The desert creeps further into his domain every year
Tendrils of havoc pushed like weeds wicked fingers by fertile bullets
Planted with no thought for the cruel blooms that unknown casualties assume know best
Brush strokes of red lichen, grace pocked walls carelessly evident of lives now past.
For every gravestone reminder of fertile soil
He knows each harvest relies on the last.
Cultivating only goodness in his heart,
the last gardener opposes the law of abandoned places:
That only rot will grow in the spaces left by humanity’s neglect
With agriculture he fights the ravages of the faithless. Torn turning this place into nothingness,
Looking for any hope this last chance leaves in a forest fresh of despair
So he tells us he’s heard from God that
“This tree will live and we will live despite everything.”
And he believes that the timbre of his voice would drown out the violence as he kneels in prayer,
As everything he loves splinters around him.

And he believes that even against the decrepit disrepair
That He can make this place an Eden again,
An oasis of calm during conflict.

Ibrahim lost his father
But maybe his memory can blossom and some beauty can bloom from the killing fields
Of the lily white city that can raise it’s own colours as a flag
And surrender itself to the will of the God of the Gardeners.

Winter and Spring have long since passed,
cold wind, rain and frost belong in the past,
darkness thankfully no longer descends as fast,
long hot summer days arrive at long last!
Colourful flowers and plants, trees and shrubs
burst forth from hanging baskets, gardens and tubs
outside homes and shops, hotels and pubs;
brightening roadsides, roundabouts, parks and golf clubs.
Exams are over and school is finally done,
children everywhere mad to get out in the sun,
playing outside all day, having such great fun,
warm summer days being enjoyed by almost everyone.
People everywhere outside busy doing something;
weeding, mowing, watering, general gardening;
cleaning cars, washing windows, mending or painting,
or simply sitting out with the neighbours, gossiping!
Time for sunglasses, sun cream, getting a tan,
Wimbeldon, music festivals, holidays to plan,
ice lollies, ninety nines from the ice cream van,
water shortages of course and the annual hose pipe ban!
Time for day trips, sports, to picnic or sunbathe,
for the park or the beach, to swim or just wade,
to get burnt to a crisp or just relax in the shade,
for beer gardens, barbeques as the sun starts to fade!
People making the most of each sunny summer day,
determined to enjoy the sun, lap up every last ray,
each enjoying the summer in their own particular way,
“Long may it last”, people around the country pray!
For not getting a summer seems to be our worst fear,
but thankfully the summer seems to be finally here.
All around the country there is a party atmosphere
such a shame it cannot be like this all through the year!

i walk down roadsides n smile at clouds in towering wonder and sit upon hillocks of gravel watching citylights and knowing the same kinds of light shine upon you, too, sometimes: sweet, and in flittering movements. and in this snow-flurry, a single snowflake floats down the river of endless night, and drifts lazy pattern from our respective skins to each other's; i'll clamber up, down, over valleytops and riverbeds

to find you

Any brighter and
streams in the ditches
would look like Cuyahoga River
across Cleveland during the 1960's

There is no fire, only flies
who make bright their bellies
and flash for show like the perverts
in metropolitan inner city parks

Enticed to the flies, like moths
to the ceiling globes,
we gather jars and lids
with air holes hammered hard

No walking as we streak
along gravel roads built after WWII
when rationing was lifted
and road speeds jumped

Flies caught one by one
are smashed on white tees,
luminous signals for drivers
alert to the folly of our play

Our madness endures
until Ball  jars become
dim lanterns of joy for us and jail
for the bugs doomed


to die before daybreak
until swept from the garage
floor as we plot our assault
on airborne glimmers along
tonight's roadsides

Breaking waves, folding in river bends (meandering)
with an effortless grace
Cupids mouth, foaming to return -
broken and filling up the landscape.
Cracked horseshoes
waltzing across a vibrating brain,
all the worlds night
quartz, cutting drunk into
your Green city.

Banishing a sense of self
uprooting positivity, displacing our discontempt -
boil out the water from the soup of human condition.
Boredoms grace.

We're rotting, lizards tongues
wearing the past, skin deep
Imbued.
a morbid relocation of entrance
authority, a fee
Reflecting light off your face
always leading back,
back towards a tabletop nausea.

Caked in powder,
i make my way over -
licking my finger and rubbing away
at the cracks formed years ago
wandering in and out of Escher's *******,
hoping to settle mind and body
numbed and lethargic,
medicine doesn't help.

An open patio door,
grooming in the whisped brown dawn -

7.34am

God's rags, crisp
displacing particles against the mountain lip
red light brewing in the observers mind.
Cubes of water
pushing through into tomorrows wake
all unwrapping like 1,000 words
diluted into one second.

I'm tired
appetite gone
graven, knowledge of the inside of my mouth
encyclopedic and (almost) boring.
It's closed again
at the crux of abandon,
the skies youthful,
built from wood, holding up the trees.
Excess - child's play for Atlas.

Rogue, electric Blue.
Mollusc in hand
living, lipless
just outside the geopolitical borders
heading back towards maturity.
Nihil,
projects objectivity, sycamore due, borders
as happiness combed our soft necks.

A situation is only what you make of it,
we're all in on this
living together in leaves -
by roadsides
making homes where we sleep.
The sky is on fire
exploding into fruition
as hot chlorine licks against unwashed belly buttons and hair
going blind and stripping back
it breaks you.

Milk thistle, Queen Anne’s Lace, and other
nameless weeds have won the battle for the roadsides.
The flowering trees have had their shining afternoons,
and now they retire to green on green.

August stands at the deep end of the swimming pool,
where the water is still somewhat cool, gem blue.
Her shoulders are freckled and hunched and she glances
over the yard at the houses bleaching under the sun.

The young girl sits with her pale feet in the shallow end
like magnolia petals set adrift by the light breeze.
She is singing a hymn for the first day of June,
her small voice hums like bees through the air.

The chlorinated water is an ocean laid out between them.
A promise was made but not meant to be kept.
Something wordless, felt but not understood, smelling
like the sea but tasting like sweat, and she will sing of it

until her throat can sing no more.

Winding roads and one-way traffic
Heading to a poetry reading,
rounding every turn
like a metaphor
emerges from a idea.
Passing  headlights
squinted eyelids,
Ditchweed on the roadsides
lay flat and brown
on icelandic mudbeds.
Driving through a bare, tree-lit tunnel,
a library smiles off in the distance.
                            ---
Standing behind a podium
ready to send my words off
to sneak into a listener's mind
like a Trojan Horse,
let them deploy an army of sword-less warriors
ready for action.
A perpendicular sequence of events
reveal new paths on an old map.
On the road again,
back home,
the sunrise in my rearview mirror
reaches my imagination.

I enjoyed the work I did,
'cause those bearded-guys
were some serious *******,
constructing high explosives
& placing them near roadsides,
then detonating them
for maximum carnage,
to spill some serious blood.

Oh how I loved working at night,
especially those overcast nights
where I drew beads
with nightvision
& did some exploding of my own,
busted a lot of skulls.

Ya see, I could be a serious *******,
too.
And I was serious,
as serious as cancer.
I was the consummate
silent killer,
so effective,
they called me
"Mister Pathogen **"
& death I did spread.

Looking heavenward, I see only the earth.
The stars align and the planets turn,
But what of the holy?

Archangels sit and smoke and weep on tenement rooftops,
And the collared cherubim bleed into the rainswept gutters
Like cut dogs in cardboard boxes by the highways of New York,
Or the roadsides of back-alley Brooklyn or Paterson,
Where the demonic masses lie naked in the streets,
Their souls bared raw to heaven
And their hair as messy as sidestreet dumpsters.

The misted rain fogs on the busted double glazing,
The bare limbed trees outside fallen victim to a long winter
And a late spring.
The air that blows through the streets of these mundane cul-de-sacs
Has passed through the lungs of cancerous dodgers
In those hell-indulgent cities,
Where children find their kicks by freerunning
Across buildings of bricks made from c-grades,
Or by standing atop high-rises in the grey wind,
And biting their tongues only to feel their own consciousness
Burrowing into them
Like parasites from the condemning schoolhouses or university halls.

You’re alone when your skies turn grey,
And the rain falls with all the purposeful intent of a neon god.
You’re alone when your smashed milk bottles and broken plates
Are like music on those drug-dampened dawns,
You’re alone when your cold, ash-stippled roof gardens
Are your only way to heaven,
You’re alone when your fingers are cut on your own writing
And you are dizzy from spinning yourself sick
Alone in your splintered art lofts.

Your stars are misaligned and your planets need engine grease to turn,
And you sit and smoke and weep on tenement rooftops,
But you still look heavenward.
You see your madness in the same silver moon
That compels the tide and transfixes wolves,
You recognise yourself in newspaper clippings proclaiming ******,
You acknowledge your expression in broken syringes
And powder remnants
On the glass-topped coffee tables of water-dripping apartments,
You feel your heartbeat in the gasolined engines
Of stuttering Cadillacs
And taste your own warm lifeblood in the burgers of roadside diners.

You see cosmological galaxies bursting like Van Goghs,
Horrible, bitter-cold starstorms underneath white skies,
Raindrop-dripping garden leaves in shrubberies and verges
And earthy rockeries,
You dream of enlightened, ***-smoking boys in beat-up trailers
And the cluttered box rooms of sky-high apartments,
Of screeching atop stone-cragged mountains of green in highlands,
Of bell-rung harbours in the white seaside towns of England,
Of the salt-chapped lips of fisherwives
And the bone-skinny children of sailors,
Of visionary angels in stained glass cathedrals,
Of the cobbled thoroughfares of lamplit cafes in a Parisian purgatory.

And yet you lie naked on floors,
You lie high on floors and let visions spill from your hands
Like the whiskey you drink.
You are under us now,
Under the earth like meat sacks.
But your vision lives on
In every piece of self-indulgent fuckery written for you,
In every copy of your collected works
Or your novels.

Seek,
Live,
****,
Die.
For you are immortal, in the end.

Soon it will rain,
and there will be
some smell of ground,
some umbrellas will
cover the roadsides.
But before that
I will be in home
in my window.
Will watch the
rush of rains from there
till evening,
till the poetry ends.

She was fascinated,
hooked as if a fish out of water.
Whenever death
was splurged across the television
she’d sit upright,
the sofa would creak,
her eyes gorging all
like globs of kitchen roll.
Two per second.
She thought she’d solve them,
bust the case wide open
or some other cliché.
Reams of unresolved stories,
of women splayed
at American roadsides
with a missing molar
or red rings around the wrist.
There had to be an answer, she’d say.
Everything has answers
because everyone asks questions.
A human doesn’t go missing,
someone always sees, apparently.
She’d talk about dying
as if she welcomed it,
as if it was a real person
with bones and a voice.
One day she sliced her finger
and just let it bleed,
the thin line then the bloom
of crimson that wept
into the sink.
Two per second she’d remind me.
I scrambled in the drawer
for a plaster.

Sharecropper's breaking the ****** land ..The braying mule at Dawn ,
the cool cascading fall line waters , the steady tolling of the iron bell at Dusk ..
The pull of the ferryman over her inland waterways , the roar of the locomotive to points south , fragrant tobacco and smoke houses , the burning of Winter fields ..
Skies filled with the doves of September , the black bears of Appalachia , the gulls of Jekyll , Cumberland and Tybee Island ..
The turned , fertile medium refreshing the sturdy October air , of diesel
motor , horse drawn cart and wooden barrow .
Late December frost lays thick along coffee-colored roadsides , the tapping of steel shoes across aged , buckling asphalt .. Winter songbirds congregate around late afternoon icy runoff , sun beams break the grip of afternoon fog ...

Traveling at night surrounded by
a chrysalis of light, I rush
through a soft world, indistinct
except in brightly illuminated
pools at intersections and towns.
Few distractions, no landmarks other
than road signs, mileage markers. Quiet
melodies drift through the car,
reminding me of love unrequited and
love that washed through my heart like
a flood that no banks could hold.
When I reach my destination I sleep.

Those mornings I leave early,
the chrysalis dissolves as the
sun meets the horizon then climbs,
slowly at first, changing night skies
from indigo to dark then pale blue.
Platinum light emanates from the
morning sun. The world comes
alive with forests and pastures, with
rivers and towns, with farmers and
livestock. I see them. I watch them fly
past as the car cuts the air in its headlong
journey. Among the trees and landscapes
that drift in and out of my periphery
I think I see other things. Ghosts,
her ghost, a trailing scent like
perfume mingled with sweet sweat.
Wafting, swirling and clinging as she
rises, billowing from memory and loss.
I drive the highways and streets through
dynamic landscapes that never look the
same and seldom seem to change. Like
the memories that suddenly appear and
run along the roadsides, that reach out to
embrace me as I drive. Are they
echoes, maybe afterimages of a
person who passed through years ago? Of
thoughts or dreams that flew out an open
window to settle in the old eucalyptus
trees and hedgerows growing along the
roadside, even among the frame of an old
bridge over the dusty riverbed and quiet,
abandoned buildings? She waits vague and
vaporous to reunite us for fleeting, vivid
minutes, to linger as sigh, a smile and a
chill of recognition.


11 aug 13

The circuitry of this belated exclusion
Reminds me of lights in the sky
Like 'You don't know why'
Signs
On roadsides
I know her address
But I don't know mines
I look up at the water vapour on the paper
And 'Sigh'...Oh its fine
Snow lines the road I chose tonight
As the sky ignites my mind
With needs to pace tunnel mouths until daylight
Day and night
Nocturnally confide in an absence of light
That feeding hands teeth bite
Snow white
Blood synergy despite
Khaki brown lamp-post light
In grey sights bloom
Silhouettes lapse comfortably
Towards walls from the sun & the moon
In the dead of noon
This sun down comes too soon
Outside my windowsill
Separate mind states of each room
Spiraling into hate and destruction of my emptied morals
The want for perfected attachment over empty bottles
Ripping hairs out my head
Til it bleeds and pain does follow
Sifting through ******* bins
Fueled by sorrow
Searching far and close
Far and wide
The outskirts and to my side
My quantum of solace
My love
My ever-flowing blue tide
The fist
The fog
Envelops a lot
But truly there is no place to hide
I clutch the thought lost prop in my head
And swallow my pride
The wheels on this car trudge circular
Like a black hole
Am I insane?
Do I have a soul?
In no-ones car that I stole
The lights cut through the haze
Tet my wheels hit a hole
Standing right there, I see her with my eyes
As the car loses control
Her palms calm, as she settles her  head on my chest
We link arms and irrevocably become acceptant of death
The frost on my breath sporadics on her neck
Yet...
Just like icen ash
Her skin flakes wet in this winter wonder regret
My face numb and dead from words that I said
I bleed for 6 months misread in the alliteration of how I slept
Her hair dips in the snow
When we sit on the bench
I'd say something
If this didn't seem to make sense
To feel loved, intense
So dense
But where's it went?
Out the window
Turning tides thrown away like 50 pence
From her lips to her fingertips
My fragile lust shifts
Between want and repulsion
To her angelic bliss
Her arms on my shoulders
And my hands on her hips
We dance in each others minds, volatile
Try understand this
A natural feeling for reformation
Wanting back the chase
Such a thought, whats the cause?
As tears stream down my face
Emotionless hate for her
And not this place,
The ways
I wandered in want for true love
Completion by fate
Is far more appealing than the truest blue expression of our love
In togetherness
This selfish man has truly had enough
Handcuffed by enforcing sculptures of depression
I wheez and huff
I've seen some stuff in this empty town that your push can't shove
It's the wine and the water
The sons and the daughter
My dreams construct the building blocks of the slaughter
This dreamcast dream
Can't dream that on a pint of fosters
If I no longer feel a quarter like my self to this imposter
My heart flutters in love
Like the wings of a fly
In sync with she,
"What will you think of me when I die?"
The rhythm at which she breathes
Her heart beats "Why?"
Confused as my grip tightens on her neck
And I can't help but cry
stalactites dart towards the gutters in the street
The function of my bi-polar existence is inherently complete
Bags of men in plastic sheets
Sprawl at my feet
Whenever the temperature drops in this lost cause city of sleep

already buds are forming on each tree
visible through the february mist
this sign of coming spring won't be dismissed
life makes to us its yearly guarantee
that after darkness comes the jubilee
while all of nature's colours still persist
and will explode the roadsides will be kissed
with  light again all life yearns to be free
in each heart hides a promissory note
from past to future valid for all time
worth all the stories that our folk have told
to be redeemed when we are called to vote
weighed in the balance and cleansed of all grime
for a true substance worth far more than gold

Landing in Bali, you are greeted by the hot and humid weather,
Tourists throng from world over, going hither and thither,
The colorful atmosphere on arrival is a prelude to fun that is in store in this haven,
As excited visitors hop into taxis and head to hotels to which they are driven

The island is famous for it's yoga and meditation retreats,
Also for the vast number of two-wheelers plying on narrow streets,
The landscape greenery is so lush and refreshing as you drive through,
That the reason it is called "paradise on earth" so easily strikes you

The multitude of handcrafts on display at roadsides is such an unique feature,
The variety of intricate stone carvings is as diverse as the mind can conjure,
You cannot but admire the skill and patience of artisans working countless hours,
Carving out majestic designs in stone, wowing buyers to say "this is ours"

At other roadsides are displayed stunning hand blown slumped glass bowls on driftwood,
Each uniquely hand crafted for the specific end use that you decide if you could,
Molten glass takes on wood, creating a wonderful terrain for flowers, floating candles and an endless wish list,
The finished products are a touch exotic, making them must-have mementos for the visiting tourist

The famed rice terraces stretching across the countryside are so ethereal,
The manner in which farmers came up with this ingenious concept appears so surreal,
Steep mountains and deep gorges that were a topographic deterrent to cultivate rice,
Circumvented through creation of gorgeous terraces for water sharing, as if in a trice

Kopi Luwak coffee is one of the most expensive coffees in the world,
It is a Bali specialty with an interesting history that one gets to be told,
Free sampling of eight teas and coffees of different unique flavors at the coffee farm is on offer,
A must-have experience with the scenic splendor of rice fields below, on which views don't differ

Batik is considered the original Indonesian textile which has a worldwide reputation,
Visiting a Batik factory to whet the curiosity requires a bit of determination,
Such is the wide array of colorful floral and geometric design motifs seen on display,
That one cannot resist the temptation to splurge on shopping, before deciding to walk away

Some of the most mystical waterfalls in the world can be seen in Bali,
Many of them are hidden in the backdrop of rice fields and mountainous valleys,
Reaching dizzy heights that seemingly merge with treetops, make the views gorgeous and enchanting,
Waterfalls vie with one other in visual splendor, making it appear that nothing is found wanting

The majority of Balinese identify themselves with the Hindu religion,
Taking pride in their identity, prevalent over centuries in the region,
Numerous Hindu temples spread across the island is therefore not surprising,
Most with a history of their own, necessitating a visit to the more enterprising

Yoga, meditation and wellness retreats are spread all over the island in natural and exotic settings,
Surrounding jungles, waterfalls and trickling waters of rivers lend an ambience that feels so settling,
Massage treatments, spas and water healing sessions also facilitate visitors' well-being,
Such programs assist in mastering the body, mind and clarify life's purpose among other mundane things

coins of every deNOMination,
picked up, roadsides, sidewalks,
laundry tubs and machines.

bolts, nuts, a few loose screws too,
glinting in the daylight to my crow-
like eyes, bending, squawking my surprise

found
objects of infinitesimally small worth,
of unknown origin
desired, delightful, destined
   to belong to me

F.O.O.D.

Found Objects Of Desire

Treasure trove of trinkets tickling fanciful obsessions of discards.

he sighs,
lights up another cigarette.
this time he knows something is different.
he waits patiently,
coffee in one hand and nicotine in the other,
staring aimlessly at his phone.
he had lived through another silent day.
there really was no surprise in that.
it had been days since she disappeared again.


the routine was so consistent that her
absent nature was almost as secondhand
as the smoke she used to inhale when she
cuddled against his shoulder.
he was weary now,
because he tired of not knowing
what she was consuming,
or who she may be *******.
he was wary,
not knowing if she was lying in a gutter
or just lying on her back,
legs spread in an invitation to a myriad of catastrophe.
at one time,
he was the one spreading those legs.
but he was also the one tucking her in at night.

but one day,
something clicked;
she woke up one morning cold and indifferent.
her summer smile had faded,
her eyes grew frigid.
he remained patiently by her side,
until she stopped coming home.
until she started drinking herself into oblivion
with people who did only god knows what to her fragile frame.
this time,
he was ready to give up hope.
this time,
they had fought so terribly
that he knew she wasn't coming back.
he knew it wasn't easy to hear
someone you trusted say things like,
"*******, you filthy ****"
and
"i hope to god you choke on the next pill you pop."
he wished he could take the words back,
but his heart was so broken.
she was so distant,
he wanted to make sure he reached her.
and apparently,
he did.
she had shaken her black hair,
blinked tears out of her gray eyes,
and turned on her heel.
that was the last he had heard from her,
and even now he yearned to hear
her voice on that phone;
the phone lying in front of him.
any words at all,
to know she was alive.
maybe, even, that she still loved him.

because, after all,
isn't that what he wanted?
isn't that why he picked her up,
****** on roadsides,
and dried her tears on his sleeve?
isn't that why he allowed her to
hide from the world in his bed;
kept safe somewhere between box springs,
his comforter,
his arms?
he would do anything to help her,
but she was a tragedy:
a life doomed to fronts of indifference
and too deep of cuts on wrists,
thighs,
hips.
and she wouldn't let anyone help her.
any gentle touch caused her to run,
and she never wanted to come back.
and this boy,
he just kept running after her.


he takes a sip and sighs.
he ashes his cigarette,
studies it,
puts it out.
he studies the bottom of his coffee cup
and carries it to the sink.
as he rinses it,
he hears small footsteps,
and an equally small pair of hands
snake their way around his waist.
"i'm home," she breathes into his ear.
this night wasn't so different than any other,
except that she came home
sober
yet warm.
he had been wrong.
so he turns and looks at her,
takes her hand,
and leads her to bed.

The call of the bird could be heard
from many miles around - its shrill
stirred every little berry and seed
from pillar to post, from hill to hill.

It nudged the sprinkling of frost on the posts
imprints left from the cold bird's claw
mumblings from distant old ghosts
leaving it for the morning sun to thaw.

A jigsaw puzzle of green lay about the countryside
dappling yellow fields of corn with bales of hay
this trend went on for many miles wide
the rain now splattering the red soaked clay.

But you know we have very little of which to complain
the seeds themselves leave a positive trail
dancing along roadsides and down the lane
tripping up and down the vale.

The evening sun fades to a silver  moonshine
the leaves around the hedge begin to blacken
the heads of the orange Welsh poppy decline
and the pink of the rose mingle with bracken.

The light from the lamps cast shadows in the night
the bird's call can once again be heard
curtains drape around damp windows shut tight
and on the cold twig sits the shy little bird.

I know it's been more than too many years
I am not the boy you loved
Nor the man you left
And I guess
You are not the girl I fell for
Or the woman who left me
But I do know that we are still ourselves
And regardless of the winds and hours
And Years and sins
And miles and miles
And tears by the bucket
Eventually drying
Along roadsides we don't remember
Driving
That first kiss
Still drives me wild.

One to many mornings
when I was a thousand miles behind
everything I believed in
this lady she was fine
what could it be that draws me to her sine
I cannot believe in everything thats behind
a thousand broken footsteps
a childs voice inside
takes you for the miles
and leave you something else to climb
these sidewalks and people
storefronts and roadsides
why can't all these folks
see everything that's inside
is what their trying to find
its just a little bit of love
that brings me through
one to many mornings
when i'm a thousand miles behind

Every other mornings
When im a thousand miles behind
Dancing with the stars
And Running through the trees
Just running through our minds
Trying to see what we have came to find
Sometime last year
The devil danced with the moon
Fly with the eagles when we sing
The songs to pronounce our love
Moving like some animated cartoon
Thrashing in the water of the sea
Holding on to each other close
So we can feel each others hearts
Beating to the rhythm of the beat
Reminds me of the spring
Every other morning
When I was thousand miles behind

Once and now and then
You see I look to the sky
Wonder to the past
A morning left behind
What is it you see here
Your dreams are Devine
Believe in what you live for
*** in the end of the day
Its just you, yourself and everything you have inside
Anything you think
You will find it produces it self with time
Throw away your hate
Negative thoughts just distract
From all you can provide
To the world with your thoughts and speech my dear
Listen to me now believe in your fears
Shake them down with passion
Just like you did last time
Traveling one to many mornings
Lost a thousand miles behind

"Oh say can you see,
By the dawn's early light,"

                     yes, they see

"What so proudly we hailed,
At the twilight's last gleaming?"

               our flag, ripped, tattered, there....

"Whose broad stripes and bright stars,
Through the perilous fight,"

            the bombs, oh the bombs rain down

"O'er the ramparts we watched,
Were so gallantly streaming."

            still she was there, rugged, worn

"And thy rocket's red glare,
Thy bombs bursting in air,"

              on the roadsides, in the barracks


"Gave proof through thee night,
That our flag was still there."

            still there, they hadn't gotten her

"Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave,"

                    so battered, still flying,
             colors not running, standing strong

"O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave."*

                      she flies with the breaths
                   of the fallen who keep us free

Days on end
until the end of days
our time has come
to go our separate ways
my life has changed
and yours unraveled
i look back at our adventures
everywhere we've traveled
to the tops of mountains, hills, and trees
parties, movies, late nights, and poetry
roadsides, diners, great divides
between my spirit and all of my earthly ties
elevated to another spacial plane
you were the sunshine through a cloud of rain
time passes slow
i'm folded over
unable to go
unable to breath
i never wanted you
the feeling was need
my judgement was a haze
clouded by greed
red, blue, purple, and green
it felt so natural
like the roots of a tree

Brutality been building up
Cutting through the marrow
Feels like pork, penny flavored
High tension cord, aroma savored
Laced with liquid hydrocodone
World fades to black as the cleaver falls
(As the cleaver falls)
As the cleaver falls!

Spoken like a true warrior, you scheme
Despise it, revised it like a million times, it
Hurts to think that if it were tangible
I would probably just **** it to death
Scared to let myself get a handle
On the last human feelings I have left

She was a no one, a ghost
Her family left her in her glory days
Tell me, would you even have known
If I chose to keep it hidden away?

White lines on roadsides
Up my ******* nose again
I could **** it twice
This feeling I feel in the end

Every **** time I feel the cleaver fall
It's the whole night over again
A twisted groundhog day forever
Been runnin' since the very first ******
It's been building up
The brutality
And I can finally feel the release
Of the fatality
I'm balancing
Between the oncoming
Traffic
They'll say it was tragic
But not for me
Because I wanted to ******* end it

A shallow grave beckoning
Her bones like excellency
The eel in the cold pit
Slippery like new cement
Slow descent
No incentive
To respect the dead
Feeling the bile rise
Letting it coat her insides
The smell like hospitals
After a travesty

If I could put it in to words
I would just **** it red
Or beat it until my knuckles bled
And I know that if I find some help
I would satisfy
The sickest parts of me
So who the **** is next?

Don't ask me for my number, kid.
Kiss your mama goodbye