His Down's Syndrome makes
His age a tough guess, I'll
Say eight to ten.

Wide eyes on machines,
Ice cream dripping on the
Pavement outside the

Construction site.
I wanna work like this when
I grow up, he says in

Young enthusiasm to a mother
Whose eyes well up with
Gratitude when I approach

And kneel down in front of
Him. So you want a job,
Buddy? I ask him with a

Wink. He suddenly remembers
His ice cream and bites into
It shyly. Nods, glancing at the

Tools in my belt, the scratches
On my arms, the brick wall
I've been attacking with a

Wacker jackhammer. Nods
Again. Well, I'll see you in a
Few years, I say with another

Wink, this time to his mother,
Who'd look her young age if
Her eyes weren't as tired,

But you can start with this
And get some practice. I hand
Him my Stanley Fat Max

Hammer. His ice cream
Hits the ground as he
Recieves it with both hands,

Looking to his mother for
Confirmation that it's ok.
Oh, it is. She mouths a

Thank you SO much...
They walk away, his chatter
High pitched and fading

Around the corner. And I
Head over to the foreman to
Report that I lost my hammer.

Don't ever employ me.
I can work a good game, but
I'm too soft around little heroes.

What a cheerful world
Mine has become
Since I started forcing myself

To smile when my alarm
Goes off

Every
Single
Morning

It takes less
And less
Force

Sverre's morning-affirmation


I soar above my own boundless
Imagination
Looking down onto areas I visited
In dreams from as long ago
As my faintest childhood

I remember everything
This is myself seeing the
Sense in it all
It *all

I am large enough to eat
Universes
Strong enough to rip black holes
In the fabric of time and space
I laugh with the gods

I am the only
Border
I own the edge of everything
I am innermost and outermost

I know not how to
Talk down to
Myself

In all I see
In this world
I see me

Blue sky lightning bolt.
This is not a sunburn.

Struck to the Ground of
Gratitude by the merciless

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

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

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

The Man Upstairs and I speak
The same language.

There's listening to be done
On both sides.

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

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

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

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

Though the Summer sun
No longer muffles its rays
With trees, but is full with
Daytime,
I will let you sleep.

Though the cat is playing
With your feet under the
Cover to annoy them into the
Kitchen,
I will let you sleep,  

And feed her myself.
I'll keep the news on low;
Only be whispered to of the
Deaths and tragedies we've
Slept through.

And if my every dream as of
Lately has been true; that
You miss the freedom of an empty
Bed when I'm there;
The room for another it creates,

I will let you sleep.
I will close every door of the house
Between us, hide my pain
In my hands and feel it run
Like the last of our sand between
My fingers.

I will not wake you up with
A single sigh, snuffle or drop of
Tear on this floor that
We walked in our days of love.
I will suffer for us alone.
And let you sleep.

A strand of your hair
On the table.

I pick it up gently
In grace; gently in love still,

And place it in the bin.
If ever we end,

Let us end it
Like that.

Of us wants to
Lose
Either
Of us.

So the Poet knows that to
Stand up for it all,  
He'll have to stand down.
Stand back and
Look around,

Say to himself: Your big heart
Deserves better than
Your big head, brother.
You can both have
Whomever you
Want.

So if you want each other,
Keep wanting each other.
You're not
Stupid, you've got hands. It ain't
Rocket Romance.

I stand yelling on both of my own
Shoulders, trying
Not to confuse
Myself.

I love you.
I'll take that. And
Run with
It.

"These are just too him," she said
And put her father's boots
Aside for me.
A size too big, but just my style.
Cried silently inside; she'd shed tears
Enough by now.
I thanked her in a whisper.
-
"How did your doctor's go?" she says.  
I look down at my new
Boots; "not well."
"Too thick or thin?" she asks, the
Blood in question ringing in my
Ears in blushed embarassment.
"Too thin," I say, knowing too well
What whisky does to anyone's.
She kindly mothers me in whispers.

"I thank each day your life was saved
By surgeons and Warfarin. But
Just for me -look how it went
With him whose boots
You're wearing."