The afternoon sun
leans through the front window.
There are no doors.
You are already inside.
There should be a bed.
Instead there is a sofa.
The sofa is death.
Purple,
its leather catches the light
until it almost blinds,
shining with blinding inquisition.
Above it,
a weathercock,
one of those rooster arrows
that shows where wind goes.
It changes.
It becomes a bow.
The arrow is loosed.
It buries itself
into the leather.
Death.
Then nothing.
Darkness.
The wide stream never used to be for boats.
An estuary that made those few feel grateful.
Back then in 1959 people thought it was simple.
The greatness of simply existing to build something.
The local lostness of it all, uncertain beginnings
What is now a shallow muddy inlet back then-
Was an abundant waterway where boys would fish.
The mystery of the lupins lighting up those early years.
The heavy macrocarpa pines flexing toward the beach.
The strange Tararua ranges glaring down.
Knee high on the margin a young man stands.
Pondering the future of an incredible country.
That would flourish, then become a culture of complaint.
Ingenuity would be replaced with perfectionsim.
Progress would be in words and appearances.
Overtime the river became shallow and the boats disappeared.
Sailing off to Aussie for a better future.
Der Wahnsinn hat mich übernommen.
Mein letzter Schritt war umsonst.
Ich wäre fast zurückgekommen,
doch jetzt bin ich anders.
Mein Geist hat versucht, in ein anderes Leben zu gelangen,
doch auch das war umsonst,
denn ein Stück von mir bleibt noch hier.
Ich bin durch die Zeit gereist und durch den Himmel.
Doch jedes Mal bin ich dort geblieben, wo ich bin.
Like steel toward the things you seek.
Glimpse fragments of your future
small mercies from a presence,
a hand upon your shoulder,
whispering,
Possibilities.
Parents made promises,
Sometimes those promises dissolved.
Most of us learned that lesson.
Yet hidden inside that disappointment
was an unexpected gift:
We learned to survive on possibility.
Life,
The power that carries it,
is more complex than imagination can fathom.
That is why rigid religion,
tidy spirituality.
So often fail to bring us close
to the lives we long to live.
Lives with less anxiety.
Lives with a deeper sense of freedom.
Today,
Expectations must remain low,
but never your hope.
Hope belongs to the horizon.
The moment hope climbs the fence
and enters the territory of expectation,
All bets are off.
Out here I'm out of the queues
I am no longer comparing myself
I love bus stop
I love the sun warmed curve
On this high hill looking over the land
Praying the bus never comes
observing the single isolated trees
How they perforate the sky's horizon
Out here the sky seems bigger
it's holding a conversations with me
It gossips with my personal future
Leaving me out of the details completely
So I sit here on the warm curb
The bus hasn't come in days
And here there is no night
Passing cloud sustains me
The sun itself keeps me company
I could live this life forever
Just observing the horizon
Showing gratitude for simple continuance
golden floor
The bed takes up most of the room
Tis a space for making love
Curtains and lanterns
Two bodies
Under sheets
serpents in the water
Heat and movement
whining and wrything
Royal nest
Soon to be offspring
crawling up the fancy scuplted bed posts
Like nocturnal jungle creepers
Gloomy face
Hypochondriac
Office dread
deadlines present blades
Productivity
Collaboration turns to calamity
Competition and flattery
Fraudulent behavior
Seeking a solid career
Impatience annoyance
Short tempered living room
Home office nausea
Sweaty repugnance
flush after flush
A call with the boss
He loves puns and ambiguity
The kind that keeps you reaching for a new job somewhere else...
