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stairs
Friday, July 1, 2011
it was all about
the stairs to her flat.
i’d find a car park
and climb them.
there were just enough of them
to be excited by
the time you reached the top.
i was usually well dressed
always fearless,
feeling together.
a force of nature.
first the stairs off the street,
past the mailbox
thinking
what would she be wearing?
a slight turn.
some lawn furniture
the anticipation.
silent breath before a thunderous applause.
then brick paving and
the final wooden stairs to the door,
distressed paint
and cracked wood.
i’d never know who might
answer the knocks
but it was a frantic explosion
of feet on the stairs inside
then the door would open:
her smile would surface
as if from an ocean,
everything felt in place.
“hi”
she would say
her mind was catching its breath
“hi”
that one syllable.
it meant everything
then out somewhere.
a restaurant.
some swings at a park
overlooking the city.
the coast at night.
the story that feels like
it is just beginning,
about to continue
to another chapter,
to another season,
the casting is complete
the director has signed on
sets of costumes already hanging
schedules prepared
cameras booked
lights polished
but the writing is crap
the fans are alienated
the plot indigestible
the critics complain
the studio deliberate
and it stops a little
before the.
no more letters
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
this it how it would work.
at the train station
we would swap letters
written the day before
and carry them safe in
our backpacks.
her school wore green,
she had a green bag.
on the bus i would read
her letter.
writing a reply would start
during class.
one page
then the other side
then another page
all thoughts found the paper
thoughts were shuffled together.
punctuation had to be sparse
it got in the way
kerouac had nothing on us
our consciousness was rivers
she kept the letters
in a wooden box
under her bed
100′s of them
her letters only remain
in this poem.
in memories
no one writes letters anymore.
words are now data,
counted not in pages,
not written on special paper
or on the back of a postcard
or a copied magazine page,
not smudged with coffee
or scribbled on,
never folded to fit inside a book
nothing crossed out for edits
no changes of pen,
no drawings
or found things, or pictures
stuffed in the envelope,
not carried around for days
for the quiet times
best for writing
everything now is digital
and today i have bought some whiskey
on the internet
and saved $90
here’s to young me
Sunday, June 26, 2011
the past of anyone
is generally pointless
it has already worked its magic.
scars carved into our life’s skin
digging up the family cat
i loved at 7
- before i understood love
would only reveal
bones and rot and worms
but when i cried on the stairs
he would sit with me
quietly
a golden spirit
with 4 pawed legs
and glowing eyes
I have a secret place
where i have
hidden memories away
as keepsakes
and denial.
tonight i have broken them free
the corpses of candles
burned while freshly dead friends
hovered in the smoke,
the last wax held
in the screw caps
of sickly port bottles
postcards that were never written
or were sent or not sent
and love letters and tragic letters,
they make sense now
the years have cast
mountain ranges
that i cannot look back over
or around
reading the words of my first great love
then her apologies
i can’t smile without you
protect your heart – forget me
i can see through the mountain
i can see the young
fierce and foolish romantic me
cheers to you young me
you turned out ok
still foolish in the same way
selfish and generous
too much heart and too much mind
foolish in the same way.
i think we both hoped it
would happen like this
fighting rivers
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
i am walking
towards a street crossing,
i feel it before it happens,
without a beat dropped
the signal
changes to cross
i’m in the flow.
the start and stop of cars
and my footsteps are aligned.
all movement
heralded by fates
it is either this:
feeling in the flow of waters
or battling the currents
it is the big distinction
philosophy
prophecy
and gods alike
and the madness of humans
is suckling on the
half truths
of either one .
into deeper waters
sink those that see
only half of it all.
you don’t find the fish
in the river
without reading the currents
or tracing the bugs
hovering
when you feel the pull
go with it.
when the water is calm
kick your legs
and work your way
downstream
the real trick
of course
is feeling when to fight
and when to flow
brand tag
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
we called it brand tag
amidst the foundations of
one of the classrooms
a clay bank
and giant concrete pillars,
taller than all of us
piled high,
punching through the earth,
holding the building up
one would run and dodge
the others would throw
tennis balls
the idea was not to get hit
or to throw as fast as you could
depending where you stood
the clay was on a slope
the tennis balls rolled
by themselves
back to the throwers
easy for them.
there was the anxious moment
standing at the top
looking down
we were 8 or 9
too young for fear
too young for consequence
on top but on edge
anticipation
fear
excitement
that ball would really sting.
stick to one side of labyrinth if you want the exit
Monday, June 20, 2011
on my scooter
chugging past the museum
after a long long day
the blue sky sinking to dark
a moon
of great omen,
a silver giant,
is rising over mt victoria
majestic and pale
people on the footpath slow their walking
they point
some stand still. in trance
i spy a break in cars
battle thru traffic,
find a park
kick my bike on its stand
and walk back,
aiming for a photo
of course no photo can come close.
layers of our brains
like wrappings of the onions heart
were nurtured on the full moon.
it was calling our waters,
illuminating our hunting
and also
when once we swam as fish under its light.
when once we ran as wolves.
this is history
beyond weathered masonry
tea stained parchment
maxims of human language
and paintings of renown
how the night sky
finds us as animals
the day my stars said i’d do nothing clever
Monday, June 13, 2011
not even words come.
they are gangly.
they trip over themselves.
shoes snagged in the legs of
barstools
i sit and imagine myself falling,
strangers pulling legs
out from under me.
this is what a few years teaches you,
keep your eyes peeled
in all directions.
random cruelty comes more readily
to most
than random kindness.
be on guard at all times.
you can’t just bash the words out.
put pen to paper and trawl the sewer
for the golden mean,
but it’s mostly shit.
it can’t be forced.
the words come out wrong.
rushed.
slightly off target.
seeds scattered just shy of soil.
i walk the same paths
to the same places.
out of focus.
familiar but blurred.
the same but underwater.
a world inverted
and drowning on itself .
simple communication is hard.
people don’t say what they mean
or what they think
or what they feel
there is a formula of phrases
in a culture
in a language
so prescribed to be
currency
inflated beyond worth.
it is good for transactions
then you run into problems
with anything deeper.
words are said and their meaning ruined
all at once .
words are said.
misunderstood.
misremembered.
their snowflakes melt as you catch them
delicate shapes of snow flakes,
so unique as they fall,
melting.
leaving a cool water.
storytellers are for stories
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
first connections
become mythic
i collect them like fairy tales
you feel a story surfacing
rising in spirals of aether
the feeling of being written
down on pristine paper
the hum of a power generator.
fated eyes locking.
reaching out for a first kiss.
a hand held in a hand.
the chime of wine glasses.
hunger in bodies that grows with constellations.
great authors of our own lives
we are
and we get tangled
in the stories of others
we try to slip in a paragraph
where we are heroes.
we cliché ourselves.
write their thoughts
in permanent ink.
we fuss.
we edit.
we chose our words with care
with dictionaries.
we research the classics.
we compare ourselves with all our humility.
we contrive with wishing wells.
we write ourselves out.
we write ourselves in.
and someone else holds the pen
for half of the page.