Small pieces

 In these houses and buildings can I get an idea of myself

In God's house he's cooking pancakes

He's decided how the world might look

it started taking shape

I had no clue

So I did the same

I narrated the story and damn

It came to pass like a soothsayer might claim

But in each house I went I didn't get a stronger sense of myself

I didn't recognize the silent parts of me that gave up

Or the noisy ones who no longer knew why they shouted

Did the future fall for me, did i fall for it?

Not willing to cradle the past

To comfort those hundred parts of me

Who've made me incredible today

Yet who were never given relief

I take today to bless these small pieces

That I was once ashamed of

For not being aggressive or brave

For not sending me forward in boldness

But gave my sleep color

gave me the strength to forgive and let go

The curiosity to dig deeper

To shed the skin of fate and lift myself to higher destiny

Down Te horo

 Down Te horo road at the length of it
where dust settles

Next to the construction mix depo
Across from the convenience store

The haze of morning 
stretches between highways

the new one crossing where the sands begin
The old one from where I am from

Search the face of an elderly man
For one hint of optimisim

Down Te horo road
It's straightest stretch of road

where dozy neighbours appear
Dust caking their furry slippers

Not knowing if they should sip or chat
Cradling their coffee as much as their opinions

Faith has...

 Faith has been tested and the new way of living is upon us

Focus of the soul forces God to greet us

Through the yes through the heart the will of wills

Through belief get there before the open waiting coffin

Faith has replenished me when not even the light would touch me

That a darkness so solid so still would paralise me

The path forward wrought with strangeness

Such my essence never touched

When many look upon the road they are hynotized by the cobblestone arrangement

They count the lines and walk parallel to them on their ways

I have left those hardened paths behind and made my own

For faith craves obstacles pain and the rejoicing of conquest

People running from nature

 Here the the land is still

People run to find comfort like rivers

Through their lives exerting emotion

as their legs move

Here the sun hangs

There is no night

The haze is unapologetic

People run in herds like deer

Here the mountains teach

Valleys listen

Rock and tree vibrates

People hide from severing silence

Rolling over in my spirit mist

 Through the mist

On and on unknowing

feeling for the edges of the land

spinning searching inside the sense of my direction

Through the mist I crawl

Its humidity allows me levity and life

Further rolling over the morning landscape

Fighting to obscure what the sun would illuminate

I roll and waver

Condense and expand

I eat the ground and digest it in dampness

I cool the the thick concrete and infiltrate it all

I raise a ton of phantoms

Painting the land in their apparitions

I delay the sky

I delay the sky!

Underneath the mall

 There it is sealed from under a mall.

The shops on top.

Foot traffic crosses those smooth floors.

They are all polished to the same degree as faces.

I could feel and hear the squelch of rubber souls forced against linoleum.

Uncomplaining yet panic stricken looking for style.

Prowling a foodcourt.

Watching their own steps.

Never wondering what is waiting below them.

From under the mall.

The many layers of forgotten abandoned products.

Piled and dry in the endless dark silence.

Until the next purge of useless stock finds its way down.

The shelves down here speak like glasses toasting.

Noone would question why, for noone hears it.

One would look for a corridor to reach back up to the mall above.

But like an undertow at sea, there's no way back.

Entwined in a thousand mannequins who have slowly changed shape.

It looks like they had moved once or twice on their own.

Their strange expressions reflect many decades past.

Way back in the eighties when they were stashed here.

And now they've paved over the exit and entrance.

Like a tomb it all just remains waiting for archaelogists hands.

It all just humms in the darkness like a perfect organ,

with no real purpose but to keep itself in tact.

Two mice in time

 The white mouse was day
The dark mouse night
They would take turns to run the wheel
The saw dust and feces

The running and the anxiety behind the legs
The revolving caged wheel
Glass exterior oneself on display
dark mouse night, white mouse day

Little legs hurry
The religion of productivity
practiced through prayer of scurrying
Fingers touch and mist the glass

Sometimes tapping
Sometimes putting skin on glass
The prints appear as hieorglyphs
Mice eyes attempt to decipher

In a reality where the only noise
is the second hand ticking 
Turning it all over
Running around the face