'Strings and Holes and Other Things'


This world is strange, Bill.
It's a mess of flowers in hair
and the taste of winter nearing,
of objection being an abject sin
to throw wreaths at,
filled with trembling daisies
and the taste of discomfort
found in books written
by oppressed Russians
and plays staged by the spoken class.
Literate fools. Nonsense in a teacup.
Two sugars and milk, two hands
to show your lover what it means
to feel passion and anger to be twins.

I still believe
there's a modicum of truth
which tells me I exist
to plant seeds in this earth,
seeds which will bloom and sprout
and make me reconnect,
make me throw stones into the ocean
and giggle, make me do the silliest,
fruitiest things.

Let me believe this.
Let me think delusion and truth
are opposing twins too, riled
and grating together, too full
of push and pull, polar dynamics
stretching, becoming a silent,
salient thing.

This world is strange, Bill.
It's a ball of silly string.


'again, shhh'


what
secrets?

you, hiding:
flower-infested hair

and carrots dangling
from your mouth

(a splash of hummus
on a whole-grain slice)

the grass, warm
beside you

hiding
your fright


'triangles'


earlier, emma and i chanted, danced with hare krishna's,
discussed philosophy, psychology, why i'd never convert
but eat their food all the same, stare at their saffron robes:
bald men with glasses like mahatma gandhi,
blonde ladies not past twenty-eight, still firm
and wild-eyed, impatient.

nights like this gift me with alternate angles.
empathy, i've been trying to reconnect.
compassion, what to say to a slab of meat?
excess, i wave it back to the gutters.

from beach road to titirangi to pukekohe again:
i'm of two minds, of two different faces.


'just a thought or three'


i say
all this earth
could give me
dust showers
and erupting clouds
reminding me
of vesuvius
and pompeii
in history books
i've read
churning over
why
tragedies happen
only
to the seemingly
eternal
who grace pages
and paintings
and the sound
of concertos
raised to god
and the conductor
furiously
scribbling
at notes
needing
releasereleaserelease
to catch fire
and tell the stars
all is wild and good
and pure
and scraping
for affection

like you knew


'chic. cheek? i'm sorry'


i'm no piece of candy for you to
chew laboriously over. no sweat-rag
for you to throw out in the dumpster.
i have some sense of class, decorum
(not much, i know). i have a certain
cafe-night-sidling-by-with-a-cigarette
because i like to think i'm slightly hip.
slightly, y'know, ethereal: an eclipse
of bubbly toes and blossom lips, of
perfection being an abominable sin.
a sin! gutter-talk when the candle's
set just right. a raised eyebrow at
your stumbling, bumbling shoes.
at your ebullience when none
should be felt. when stars drop
onto my belt. and tell me

"wake up. you're a frightful sight."


'arch(aisms)'


attachment: lasagna to a lover of all things italian.
i've never visited rome or florence or milan.
but maybe, one day. maybe.

epigrams: i studied these once.
came up empty, shadowed by self-doubt.
to define, to realign and make witty? shoot me.

somnambulance: i've recently discovered this.
a fruitful philosophy in which to dream.
no, it's stasis, moonshot, the taste of steel.

inferno: i've no connection with dante.
no time for brimstone fumes.
arch with me. pray in tune.



'lorca's lover'


yes, i'm a whore to temptation. i chase shadows
and breathe the forlorn even during the day.
if i were a gay male, i'd be lorca's lover
or his sorry confidante, no mistake.

maybe
it's time to stuff oblivion
into my mouth, watch from an old house
made of oak and cedar
and recall:
windswept juniper beyond the walls,
crushed monkey berries
shrivelled and tasteless and watery
like they always were.
oh, remember as a child—
hiding, throwing,
stumbling
and not knowing, not caring
what the world was about?
it's silence now, silence and mercy
with her white hat.
it's empty now: blue shores call
but never twice.
home is gone, lost in a slipstream
of forgotten friends who'll never come back,
drowned in a pool of prayers
and lonesome, lavender light.

i'm a whore to temptation. i look more than i should.
i chase shadows and bathe in the night.


'anklebiter'


i write poems to myself tonight. it speaks of cheap perfume
and stale sweat fusing the carpet and my lips together.

existence: a little girl who breaks her ankles every day.


'is marriage blind?'


i was nine when my world tumbled,
became floating spars
drifting through different oceans.
i would hold an orange
and peel slowly,
dream slowly
of the fruit within.

you speak of sky
when countries burn.
you clean dishes
when children hunger.
i've always spiralled, hoping
and falling, hoping
and falling
and yet
you still speak of sky
like a lover would.
how i wish i was filled with your might.

i was nine when the rivers burst.
i was blinded from rushing waters.



'now is'


i forget. i condense.
each noun a statement. a whirl.
a figurative gesture. and i. and you.
we shoulder each moment past.
grab a hold of. existence.
it's not that futile.
just now.


'Mark'


He wouldn't recognize me now,
fleet-footed when it comes to decisions—
sometimes wobbly, both feet spindly stalks
asking for the nearest seat
to splay my tired body
upon.

The last time we conversed,
it was under an old tree
I'll always have fond memories of—
lichen-crusted, still with an old swing
made of rope, wood and summer breezes
blowing eternally.

I would ask him how his nursery fares, how
time on a farm would leech anyone
of wanting to know the outside world—
beyond the hills of Pukeoware,
atop a fence-post standing sentinel
for the birds.

I remember where the chickens
would coop in winter, laying
the fattest eggs possible—
and I'd still see the kennel where
my dog would sleep, now overgrown
with wild raspberry bushes.

He was the only dad I ever knew truly, one
who taught me young and told me off—
but little boys being what they are,
will never learn, will never find out
until their fingers get caught
under the grill.

It's time to visit again
and share the moments
since I last saw him.

Touchstone 2009

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