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.

Signpost to oblivion

When she threw me out
It was my fault I know.
The drinking had started again.
I slept in the car for days.
Locked out at night.
Yet still I drank
My job was lost.
But not as lost as me.
I remember waking
in the drunk tank.
I was ***** unshaven.
And my eyes were hollow.
She paid my bail.
I saw her through the bars
of the cell.
She was so beautiful.
And so clean and pure.
She whispered quietly
I always loved you.
I still do.
I felt so ***** I needed
A shower and shave.
But living rough is hard.
I quietly said thank you
I love you too.
She touched my cheek
With her finger tips
Like she used
to touch my skin
When we made love
In our clean bed.
She had tears in her eyes
As she saw what I had become.
She said softly
You know I lost our son as well.
As I stumbled away
to that signpost
for the town of oblivion

It's a still morning, quiet and cloudy
the kind of grey day I like best;
they'll be here soon, the little kids first,
creeping up to try and frighten me,
then the tall young men, the slim boy
with the marvellous smile, the dark girl
subtle and secret; and the others,
the parents, my children, my friends —
and I think: these truly are my weather
my grey mornings and my rain at night,
my sparkling afternoons and my birdcall at daylight;
they are my game of hide and seek, my song
that flies from a high window. They are
my dragonflies dancing on silver water.
Without them I cannot move forward, I am
a broken signpost, a train fetched up on
a small siding, a dry voice buzzing in the ears;
for they are also my blunders
and my forgiveness for blundering,
my road to the stars and my seagrass chair
in the sun. They fly where I cannot follow
and I — I am their branch, their tree.
My song is of the generations, it echoes
the old dialogue of the years; it is the tribal
chorus that no one may sing alone.

Signpost to oblivion

When she threw me out
It was my fault I know.
The drinking had started again.
I slept in the car for days.
Locked out at night.
Yet still I drank
My job was lost.
But not as lost as me.
I remember waking
in the drunk tank.
I was ***** unshaven.
And my eyes were hollow.
She paid my bail.
I saw her through the bars
of the cell.
She was so beautiful.
And so clean and pure.
She whispered quietly
I always loved you.
I still do.
I felt so ***** I needed
A shower and shave.
But living rough is hard.
I quietly said thank you
I love you too.
She touched my cheek
With her finger tips
Like she used
to touch my skin
When we made love
In our clean bed.
She had tears in her eyes
As she saw what I had become.
She said softly
You know I lost our son as well.
As I stumbled away
to that signpost
for the town of oblivion

we hear the dancing men giggle,
**** cloth comedians
two Tarzans twittering
like nightingales singing in berkley square
their female wrestling partners
as bereft as any whale
longing for ruby rings
to signpost the hell out of there.

Eastbound sundown on the I-84, the sun in my mirrors.
I imagine standing on the beach in Klamath
watching it say good morning to the other side of the world
with the girl of my dreams cradled in my arms asleep.
But the land here is different, the grass is dead
and that girl doesn’t escape my thoughts.
She stays in there, waiting for me to fall asleep
so I can hold her again in the darkness for a few minutes.

Pocatello to the left, Ogden to the right,
where is it I should go tonight?
I heard of an Aberdeen near here, a home away from home.
Maybe it looks the same as the Aberdeen I know.
I move into the left lane, the fast one if you’d believe,
because here in America everything’s the wrong way around.
Last chance now to change my mind, final call for Ogden.
The slip-road passes by me and joins another highway
that seems to ascend into the horizon and disappear completely.

The landscape here is unbearably flat,
I feel myself longing for just the slightest rise or fall,
let myself feel the curvature of the world ever so slightly.
There is a hill on my right that looks just like my Bennachie,
rising sharply to a peak then slowly flattening out
until it joins the inescapable flatness of this country.
Raft River, American Falls, Pocatello,
fourteen, thirty-seven, fifty-eight.
Many miles to go before I can sleep,
many more miles to go until I am home.
Sixteen miles just to the next rest area.

I wanted to drive around Raft River
but I couldn’t see it from the road
and I didn’t know how far it was to Aberdeen.
What looked like a diner was by the road on the right.
The dust swirled up around the solitary pickup parked outside,
the owner looking like the guy in Nighthawks with his back to me.
There was no fancy couple there,
just him on his lonesome in Idaho alone.

Exit 36 points me in the direction of American Falls and Rockland.
This was where I was told to turn off at.
The slip road rose up towards the next road, and it felt wonderful,
finally feeling like I was actually going somewhere,
The signpost at the top of the rise
shows me the way to go to Aberdeen.
Left I go, to American Falls.

Through the city I drove, trailers and bungalows together.
There were big trees in the front and back yards
but they were not too dense that they looked unseemly,
in fact, they added character and life in this place.
A cat darted across the road, waking me up,
warning me not to keep my eyes off the road too much.

The end of the road, stop sign, no others giving me direction.
To the left, the road went around another corner
to go back in the direction I came from.
I took to the right and followed the road,
trees and houses on my right, wasteland to my left.
I went over a crossroads and stopped at the next,
exasperated at the lack of signposts.
I parked next to a long bungalow
with a red-painted ramp going up to the door.
An old woman wearing an apron covered in flour answered,
and she found my accent pleasing
when I asked her the directions to Aberdeen.
She offered me a cookie, and I accepted,
I hadn’t had food since I left Oregon
even though she said I was not far from Aberdeen.

We said our goodbyes and I turned left,
continuing on a road that curved to the right
and through a well-manicured little park.
It was unusual seeing grass this green,
having been offered greys and yellows
for most of my journey in Idaho.
I turned left at the police station then left again.
A large body of water, Snake River I think it was called.
It’s hard to call it a river, more like a lake,
the water the same shade as the lochs back home.

After a few miles, I make it to Aberdeen,
the signpost informing me the population is just over a thousand.
I have a feeling this Aberdeen will be different to mine.
The houses here are so small, but they have good gardens.
There is a warehouse with potatoes inside it.
I am a long way from home tonight.
I can’t find a motel, so I stop at a bungalow covered in windows.
A ***** gold pickup sits outside.
I knock on the front door, which is on the side,
because this is America and everything’s the wrong way around,
and a middle-aged man wearing a mullet
and a Phish tank top answers.
He invites me in and says I can stay as long as I need,
offering me food and beer and company.
They people here are nice, much friendlier than the old Aberdeen.
I like this new Aberdeen, it feels like a home already.

I dreamed well that night, the girl in my arms,
sitting by Snake River, watching it flow,
carrying away all my troubles.

In the civilization game
The mind is a sphinx riddle

Signpost projectiles suffice to be words

Can you be centered in intimacy
Knowingness  consuming vulnerabilty?

Our shadows are our ruins
Illuminating social foliage

Love's incisive lacerations
Conforming to moral memory

I savor the overwhelming

do i really have to wear a sign
so you know what im feeling
or does the hunger in my eyes suffice
i wonder if can you see me at all
if you can see the facade of a heart
that ive placed on my sleeve
the heart that was made from
too many mistakes and
too many lies
but if you look close enough
if you and only you look close enough
you will see that it is frayed
at the stitchings
that it has been worn down from use
and abuse
if you cared to look close enough
then what i would show you
would not be a sham of a heart
i would rip myself open
and show you the real one
the one that breathes your name
the one that pumps desire
the one that truly beats and has been beaten
and god has it been beaten
if you asked me to
i would do that for you
but i have a feeling you will forget me quickly
much more quickly than it took you
to climb into bed with him

set sail and ten years happened
another ten to add to all the others.

You were the bowl of oranges.
Lilac skin and a blue heart
On your sleeve.
The lights and colours that erupt
In stars behind closed eyes:
I saw you even when I drank myself blind.

You were the solution of words
Once all the chemicals lost their kick.
The Truth was out there,
We stayed inside sheltered routines
Which blacked out the skies,
Cast a ceiling on our dreams.

You were the Earthly phenomena
That kept me from drifting to the stars.
The coastline in my breath,
On my tongue - to everyone.
You were the name my friends
Were tired of hearing;
The name I cannot forget.

You were red wine;
On my lips and on your dress.
You were... Late-night farewells,
You were the sun salutation,
The birth of a nation
That could blossom into colour in my mind.

You were beautiful in the cloud forests,
Astral depths: we never had to speak.
What age did we reach
Before that daydream started to ache?

You were the faded fantasy
That I held like sand in my hands.
When we kissed I would tremble,
I would lose a little more of you.

You were sad singers.
Old souls that tread the line of their sanity
In fine-point precision;
You were the art that coursed my veins
When surrounded by grey food, grey rooms, grey walls.

You were the messenger with an olive leaf, a blue feather;
A signpost for dry land. You were the panic button
That would take me to the safe place in my mind.
You were the way I said ‘I love you’
In a voice that was finally mine.
You were my lighthouse in the distance
And all the words I cannot find.

Colours
blending me now,
sensing,sending me,
how do they know
what I feel?

There are some words to describe what it seems like to slide down a rainbow or what corn hears as it grows in the field,
I don't know what they are,but
ask me how far it is far and I'll tell you,it's as far as the length of a thought.
when you think that you know, in the time corn hears the **** crow, that thought will be longer and further away.
I've never slid down a rainbow but I bet it is soft,like a hollow of hedgerows and the **** crows......doo,
and I will.

Still these colours crowd in on me as
If there's something that they can see
and I can't.

Perhaps I'm being fixed up to pick my bundle of sticks up and carry on,
red means I stop but then amber will pop up and make up the green in me,
seen in me,sensed all about and,
me,
often blind
cannot find the end of my nose but the signpost always shows me the way.

I will chop up the firewood to warm up the blood in me,
do something good for,
I am tired of this selfish destruct in me,while
empathy selfishly laughs at me,
it seems to be always the me in me that can't see the wood for the fire that burns in me,
I should try to be
something I am
something of a man in me tells me that to be free,
it is this I must do.
The **** crows and
I will.

Confusion has taken up residence within my mind of late,
An uncertainty, certainly,
Like a crossroads with no signpost,
I'm unsure of where to go,
Where I'm going,
...once, going twice and gone to the gentleman in the tan suit flanked by white-clad orderlies,
Gone with the wind,
My life is a mosaic of mistakes,
Beautiful for some to behold, but broken none the less,
My heart hasn't skipped a beat but I've skipped my last few appointments,
I'm addicted to shortcuts leading nowhere fast,
Getting ahead at lagging behind,
I'm... Afraid.

Too much empty space and yet no room to think,
I'm howling but you wouldn't hear a sound if you cared enough to listen,
Nor see a ripple upon the surface of the lake you used to swim in,
You see what you have to see,
What I have to show you,
You see a constantly constructed façade of smiles, of laughter,
Of everything that constitutes being "okay"
You don't see the jagged edges,
My hands are torn and ****** from holding it in place,
Still, scratched palms are nothing to keep you in the dark,
Or rather, out of it,
I suffer this alone, I endure this alone,
I stand alone
...and I fall alone,
And as I meet the ground, I fragment,
To once again piece myself together,
I wonder when the cracks will show...

in this 2012 year
elevating consciousness
our illusive challenge..
an evolution signpost
on a circuitous road..

reaching this marker
finding new directions
depends on awareness..
locating our place
right here and right now..

worthy guides there are
who tell us
we are perched
on a precarious ledge
between light and shade..

other names suffice
for this place
might we say
blessing and curse aka.. (?)
then our guides say..

don't curse the shade
don't curse the curse..
a startling discovery
to be made
in each her own way..

at last she absorbs
the sought for blessing
during a frightening search..
all along disguised
as the accursed curse... (?)

Filed in Biblical Studies  by Steve Smith on February 9, 2015    

.

It’s time to see truth seeking less as ‘tick/check-box’ exercise and more as ‘signpost’ and here’s why. We try to capture truth and wisdom with our language, theology, doctrine, and ideas; and, this is OK as a start, but provided we don’t finish there, seeing our capturing of ‘it’ as the be-all-and-end-all of truth-seeking and understanding.  Instead, we should resist the temptation of capturing truth as the ‘whole truth’, and rather let ‘our’ wisdom, metaphorically speaking, go free! So, wisdom should act more as a signpost toward the deeper truths concerning the unfathomable depths of God’s love, and thereby away from our own shallow insight and understanding. As it says in Proverbs 3:5: “Lean on, trust in, and be confident in the Lord with all your heart and mind and do not rely on your own insight and understanding.” And at the beginning of verse 7 it continues: “Be not wise in your own eyes.”

All I Need is this moment
I will not walk on by
Thirsty by a mountain stream
Without the tears to cry

Denial and delusion
Have not worked out so well
Existing in confusion
Creating my own hell

Love teaches me to really see
What is beneath the surface
Known by the heart but not the eye
Revealing my life’s purpose

In a flash Material World
Gives way, but what is this
A signpost points the way to
A sense of eternal bliss

I am glimpsing sweet moments
In the awakened state
The Holy Instant, satori
Where oneness replaces hate.

A pearly luminosity, and five endless lines live in perfect functionality,
but make the picture of a signpost hold the dust of dim-lit destiny.
It seems to have nothing in the day,
and only once night has come does the charm of this
common intersection show its color.
Grace in form and abundance in solidarity.

I walk across the moon in bare feet.
I stand looking at its beauty in the street.
The days go by, the winds, they change,
and part of me is yet estranged,
but still gleaming on is that lamppost;
Never to want or to die.
Never tasting joy, nor ever inclined to cry.

The pavement goes forth in solemn, straight lines,
like the unquenchable flow of space, and of time.
but just for one moment I see a face in the night.
It calls out my window and beacons with light.

Right right right they stand, save Catherine,
on the left. She’s set herself apart;
unyielding to command.
Nowhere else has a lamp-post been such a lady.

Well, my fault, your fault, their fault, his fault, her fault
The fault line runs through us all
Rubbing off here and there, shattering the unshattered
Creating curved corners, wobbly lines, pointing toward
Leaning posts for us to ponder, procrastinate...
Perhaps cocking a leg to listen and learn
Or be bullied down the chorus of blame
Well....if they hadn't done that....
Or if I'd just said or done that.....
Would things have been different?
The edges neat and tidy...
To see what's coming round all the corners
The unshattered, negating seven years bad luck
So keep the straight and narrow
Refuse to open the boxes and look into the unlooked
'Control' will be your friend, sticking rigidly by you side
But what about the alt...alternative...the delete....acceptance???
Will your blindfold mar your pathway to living
Missing the signpost at the fork in the road.....

I want the excuse of insanity, oh please.
Broken record, trinket signpost, golden birdcage.
Fey glare into a reflection, power precaused intrinsic to your soul when expressed.
Give me everything I ever wanted without excuse. I'll kiss yours with my own deliverance, by
my salvation you'll be salved.
Don't let them take you away sad puppy girl, you're all I've ever got left.
I hear the faint sound of a soft melody dim, pounding through the halls like a Clam of Military Din.
Don't hear these faulty beams, I'll be good if you stay around. I'll suffer with grace if you don't, just
keep that affection that causes you to smile so wide at my company sometimes.

i almost forgot to mention the one prerequisite of modern love,
they caught the ****** in Scandinavia -
the punter, got punished - not the *******,
the punter - for crossing over the signpost
obstruction: illegal to cross, legally there, illegal to cross -
if you want an antidote to British xenophobia
watch two Brits having *** - esp. those who are
dumb enough to invite omnipresent, omniscient,
omnipotent Onan - Buddha's third and experience
how much they talk during ******* -
and why do you think most people experience
a fall of libido? professionals in ***?
sure, you can just hear behind that professionals
in carpentry - nail it! nail it! you can just hear it,
Chelsea accent and a swear word -
this is Darwinism as much as i care about a panda
bear having 36 hours to be impregnated per annum,
i watch **** out of curiosity - it's a bigger omen
factory than Halley's comet - in every one of us
a Richard Attenborough - well, trans-categorical
monism, **** sticks together - but listen to the Brits
while *******, i say *** ought to be meaningless
and onomatopoeia fuelled - she moans he plays golf,
he ******* she goes on a shopping spree -
wordless, learning a new alphabet -
but hearing xenophobic tongue on the streets of little England
and then watching British ****, you just tend to
'ave a laugh as to why you have to talk so much
when the primeval cuckoo call is already said -
******* is a curiosity for me, having professional
actors in this area was bound to undermine us
and question our libidos as mere friendships -
sooner or later men will pick up on this and will be
like **** prenups, **** marriage, **** female friendships,
embrace solipsism - Paraclete Union -
but it's just weird that modern love needs a prerequisite,
a ******, even if it's acted out, elsewhere translated as
stage-fright - the fear of someone watching -
20th century complaints of serial killers - impotence -
well, we know where this impotence came from, David
Attenborough in the background in hush tone
as if to not disturb - the female mantis teases her Saudi
billionaire into her **** nest to impregnate and then cut
his **** and assets off like a harakiri execution -
as a humanist and not a naturalist my playing field is
bound to be via a third eye, the attributes of the Almighty
reduced to filth of Onan (third eye omnipresent,
omniscient) - but it's modern kosher - Zapruder -
the first to ******* - there ain't no black
in the Union Jack - there ain't enough white
in the Stars and Stripes - one song lost among Prince
copyrights from you-tube - Manic Street Preachers'
ifwhiteamericantoldthetruthforonedayit'sworldwouldfall­apart,
they deleted it - Prince never got radio on the internet;
album? anthem anorexia - the holy bible / went missing
in Shanghai, lived the rest of his life away from the
spotlight, curating fields of rice into origins of geometry.

"Write a poem"
those three words are all it takes
and before I know it
everything i've ever known
all that i've ever experienced
is wretched from inside of me
and taped (clumsily)
aligned (crookedly)
and stapled (loosely)
to this signpost we call hellopoetry
maybe someone will notice
most will pass it by
but little do they know that it's not my words that are dripping with angst on the pole
it's me
because my words are me
they filter through my brain, my gut
my love, my hate, my biases, prejudices, hurts, scars, fears,
ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams and most definitely
most importantly
my heart

so remember as you read these words
and their words
you're not just reading poems
you're not just glancing at some scribbles on a page
slopped together to mean nothing
and consumed,
like a 50 cent burger at a diner.
you're reading expression
true, raw, human, expression
and you need to pay attention
because that expression
can sometimes
but more often then not
mean everything.

Metaphor is not a bridge over the abyss between madness & the sublime;
It is only a signpost pointing to it.

If there is an end to the abyss it is merely your finiteness.

the light
at the end of the tunnel
was actually a signpost that read
'maybe you should've chosen another tunnel'
so i took it down
because it didn't belong there
and carried on

This signpost may point
to the place where joy resides..
A knife edge
found at daybreak and sunset
with oppositional guides as
not earth and not sky
a superposition science says..
An intention with poise
may find this sacred edge
with exhilaration and healing..
There arguments are stilled
a place of oneness marked
with a glint of light…

It's safe in daylight, you know.

I drive through my crumbling suburbia
Over all of its bumps and cracks
And feel so small, yet so
Infinite.
Feeling loosely connected
To every signpost,
Every stray cat,
Every filled and vacant house.
Part of a chain that runs its course
Across the entirety of existence.
I am a spectator, an observer of
Humanity though, admittedly,
Not quick to a level conclusion of it.

Yes, days are safe. They are familiar.

But it's dusk where the malaise sets in,
A disturbance that unsettles the muscles
Under my skin
And has me toss and turn for hours on end.
It's night where I trip barefoot
Over every folly,
Every small tick in the course of my life
In a path strewn with broken glass.

It's where the realms between your sanity
And where your demons sleep
Grow the weakest,
Churning your head with static and poison
And constantly reminding you
How easy it is to find your own faults,
How difficult it is to say,
"I love myself."

I wonder most nights when this all started.

I wonder every night when it'll stop.

I read my favourite graphic novel and I see
I need more breath between the panels
The images come too quickly
They combine with the dialogue to overwhelm me
and my ability to process, to ingest
the action and our conversation

Can you afford me more breathing space,
more margin in my morning kitchen shuffle,
can you allow me the time,
maybe as much as the day after the night before
to properly process without the stress
of having to readily express a miserable conjecture
of what I’m feeling, what I'm missing

Then I can signpost where I'm heading
I can pause and recap, provide an opening to map
where my story is going
and then perhaps I can take us with me.

On the motorway
a signpost
to the place where last I left you

Behind a trap of traffic cones,
and excavated road-works
the junction lay empty and irrelevant

But I saw you there
in the spring evening
beneath the stone and clay and roses

I thought to sink into the rich deep earth
to find the rambling silk of your voice
and embrace you in your long stillness

Yet pulled away through these dark diggings
Improvements you will never see
ways you’ll never know by name

I trace my travelling years
And lose the thread of our short remembered days