rusty

It’s the Disciple's turn to

walk out on loaves and fished

seeking benign solutions

to mottled-plague problems.

Time over-rules elegy and

despite this deep notation we’ll

be left with pottery and

praxis when gods come calling

in sand-storm chariots

>>>>

Tapistry as sophistry

Beatings as betterment

Corollary as carapace

Night as day

and deep moon-shine

spotlights to a patina play

>>>>>

I can’t drink this one away. Then it was

pints, now lattes does the different foam

have bearing on this current latitude or

more a circumvent rush to move

spice around dark horns and deep

insecurities. obscurity rears again seeking

to render hollow my crude attempts

at clarity – a vision dispersed between

cracks and marked un-reachable

through a twist of fate and metal

sheeting – You’re rusty again and it

shows.

beat

I wanted to see how the spiral connects to the praxis

Charlie #4

Do you think anyone talked to him?

Hunched into green leather,

his reflection gliding through national

treasure and dark forest

His body is out there, in the wilderness

And he stands, offering himself to the world

looking down

We went out and we came back, and I came back

Do you think he got a nod? A smile?

Slumping into a chair,

the whistle blowing as Central station,

all faux-monoliths, recedes into the distance

Maybe a ticket collector? Not that time of night,

just slipping out onto empty stations in cold

mountain air and taking

the long way to a hard route.

Was there a conversation then?

Some passer by, some comment on the cold,

someone reaching out?

Or did it all confirm his dark suspicion,

that this would be the only statement made

that ever left more than an impression,

in sand, in tress, through air, on rock

A deep impression

Do you think anyone talked to him?

Forensics

Toronto, Canada

It’s like coming back to a murder

the scene all taped off – the

illusion given that nothing’s altered

the familiar chill, the light, the

noise of night – a specific symphony

but it’s the little things – a

chalk-outline here, the shots

all numbered with neat yellow tags -

each totem sets off rapid-fire

associations to nights and homes

and accents, trigger hits of

eyes and smoke and bodies.

I can’t tell what’s new and old,

the sliver whisp of ‘now’ a greasy

film over played-out vision.

It’s a sepia I could do without

now – too far in – I can’t return

the re-runs and the bleed of new

colours old brass railings

with a patina deep and cold.

I’m unsure then what these fresh

hauntings have accomplished,

whether it’s served only to fuel

a rampant nostalgia or this

strange overlay, an adaptation

of a part life, has blunted the

drive to re-live past lives

and make new indentations in the snow

fiction

Melbourne

love is the best sensation I remember

lying for

those eaten-up degrees

each bruise a bite too far

scented oils say the water’s

there to hurt you – love is

a dream you render when you

best remember lying