GeoTagged, [S37.75958, W144.95482]

a little relief

ironic
distance

-HE SAYS:
our hero is
walking
he has always
been walking
he will always
be walking
when all
points of the compass
are de-registered
and functionless
he continues on
with a relentless
weary
stride

-SHE SAYS:
our hero is a
black crow
flying along a
stretch of rocky
coastline
existing as fragments
its ancient
black feathers
are reflective
composites of
the jagged rocks
below
its wingspan is
a texture that can
only be understood
at the intersection
between sea
and sky

-HE SAYS:
our hero's
hand made leather
boots
have absorbed
an eons worth
of the earths
energy

-SHE SAYS:
our hero has no
concept of migration
but in its abstract
actuality
inspires all other
feathered beings
to such
aspirations

-HE SAYS:
our hero
does not
meet
our eyes

-SHE SAYS
our hero is
nourished by
fractal geometries

-HE SAYS
the story ends
with the outstretched
hand
of the hero
in
friendship

-SHE SAYS
no
when our hero
learns to
circle
is when
the story
ends

-HE SAYS:
holding patterns?

-SHE SAYS
yes
holding patterns...

the essence of
inherent worth
is found
in my Labradors
motions
as he
wrestles
the rope toy
from
my
fingertips

eyes unbound
and indirect
furrowed brows
shoulders
reverse hunched
and straining
against
collapse

the prize is
invented
and worthless
without the
chase

the prize is
everything
there ever was
and everything
there ever will
be

the color in
the old bricks
have
retreated
for the season
what has
settled in
in its place
reflects coarsely
against my eyes
testing
my endurance
for
textures

I can only
move
in fragments
fractions
with the momentum
of left
over
calculations

I can only
execute a complex
movement[set]
in the right lighting
conditions
that might be
interpreted
as a
wave

/as you pass me by
/as you detour
around me
I will approximate
that friendly
[gesture]
/in the darkest
part of the
day

she hides
from the earths
surface
and sings
songs
to worms
and ancient
minerals
and pours
out her soul
to mushroom
embryos

and sometimes
when I am
crossing the perilous
devide
I fall into
step with the
songs
rhythms

I interpret
them
as hymns
to
slow
deteriorations

the machines
scheduled
retirement
is interrupted
by a
red ball
bouncing down the
hallway
carried in part
by the inertia
of a thousand
unstable decisions

pausing in the
shade
my neck stretches
out
and falls
over
while my
arm goes
numb
and the
winds
retreat

I am giving you
this piece of air
for which
you can exchange
any part of me

if I am drenched
in this dusk sky
if I am smothered
in the dust
of
orange
and
blue
hues
then I will be able
to locate a path
home
next time
when my eyes
once again fail
to take in the
offered textures
of trees
of disused lawn
furniture
of the
long abandoned
web
in the corner
of the
room

dry
grey bone
grass particles
itching underneath my
skin
yearning for the
days
when it would move
in unison
with it's brethren
and sing hymns
to the
earth
sky
and falling water

if I am clean cut
if I am reserved
if I am unable to recall the
moment with precision
then this place is here to remind
me
when I stood among the
almond trees
and sang songs
to
invented monsters
(calling them robots)
and chased after
my grandfather
while he stalked
trespassing
birds
I smell the black
oil
in the distance
and
find the courage
to plunge
onto
green
(monster filled)
waters

no time to
talk beyond
some aged
cheese
adventures

the harsh light
reduces us all to
silhouettes

my textures
are best represented
in two
dimensions

and make
a good
contrast
to your
energy

for you
I will compress
my aspect
into a tiny
spec
-reduce in the
boil
all its dimentions
until
I can be
seen
from
all sides
at once

diagonal movement
seeking from his
wristwatch
some kind of confirmation
of heroic
endevours

the dry
sandy
gravel
under his worn shoes
gives up its secrets
only
in subtle
sighs

he goes
largely unnoticed

rephrased
as a question
the answer
falls off the
edge

it falls
for a thousand
years

it is still
falling now

it falls past
continental philosophy

it falls past
all converging lines

it continues
on
falling
even while I
contemplate
eating an apple

I have long since
lost any sense of
ownership
of the answer

and I would contest
any outstanding
responsibilities
for it

darkness falls
In the harshest
of suburban
light
filled
days

terminus
lines converge
an isolating experience
like sightseeing
amongst the clouds
for lost associates

swooping down
with lithe movement
for the fumbled
ticket stub

i feel the swing
in my arms
legs
spine
in an arch that
encapsulates
all being

even though the
gate number on the
stub is
obscure

even though
I have no sense
of destination

I find myself with an unexpected sense
of being
grace
self

under
Southern Cross station's
undulating roof

indefinite direction
infinite possibilities
terminus

something specific
escapes me
and instead I
am left with a
handfull of sand
and a marathon
to run

against the
edge
detecting only
solitary strands
of worn cotton
retired sentiment
salvation

fragmented movement
in the air
the leaf punctuates
its frames of
reference
via
a series of
/elaborate
/dance
/patterns
in the summer
breeze

if I could understand
what it is saying
then I would also
be able to
pretend
you out of your
/programed
/illusionary
/existance

and we could
pretend happily
together
that a valid
from of communication
is just to
fluctuate

in the summer breeze

if I am fractured
if I am un-whole
if I am not able to
speak in regulated
sentences
then I am
isolated
or
I should be
isolated
until the language
I use
is not so
frightening

I aim to greet
the day
with a freshly
scoured
mind

loose nerves
are tucked away
(pushed behind
folds of greasy
neck skin)

the carpet
rises and falls
in waves
intricate
and infinite
temporal
patterns

I seek
a clear
re-traceable path
back to clarity

but instead
lean forward
to far
and loose my balance

all my
(and my ancestors)
memories
are scrubbed clean
by the grit
from a thousand years
of
humble
shoes

burnished hours
frames the afternoon
reflecting
in its swirling
waves
a moment
barely suitable for
description

the morning
rain left
small glistening
pools of
water
on fence posts

I yearn to
reach out
and connect with
that water

rub it into
the palms
of my
hands

the red brick
responds to
the late afternoon
sun
calling
from its brethren
a measured
jihad

Seventeen steps
to cross the room
four to the
bed
six to the
replica
of the old steamer

the cross-currents of
the shag carpet
threaten to
drag me out into
the open sea
/lost in
old copies
of TV week

am drowning
in trivia
about
Mr T.

Measures

everything in order
in eighteenths measures
recycled patterns
Derivitives

down Victoria St

the sight of
the good
natured Alsatian
bitch
galloping down the
center of
Victoria st
still haunts
me

perpendicular
/tipping into estrangement
it paralyzed
the traffic

eventually
I lured it into
a park
and
latter

delivered its
good natured
soul
to the pound

where
it now has
eight days
of
grace

surfaces

what she was
seeking
at four in the mornng
in the department
store
is really beyond
me
her hands
faintly
caressing the
painted metallic surfaces
of espresso machines
her eyes
sunken
staring blankly
forward
it was as
if
she way listening
for each machine
to give up its
secrets to
her

who knows
perhaps at four
in the morning
(under pressurized
fluros)
they are apt
to do that

hours

that the laces
fall as they
may
reminds me
that hours
have gone by
since I
/last
/blinked

/[/]

my mind
exists
in
(badly)
folded
space and time

/amateur
/origami
/consciousness

lean

I lean forward
thinking
that if I miss something
she says
I will regret it
latter

I angle my
toes
towards the edge
suspecting that
an opportunity
to parry
will materialize
soon

I run the indents
in the cardboard
across my
fingertips
assuming that I
can 'read'
them

the choice of
paper
is important

soap scene

the shot of the
hourglass
has resonance

the line of the shadow
reflects back to
us
an earlier scene
where the hero
performs
an
emergency appendectomy

so
when she turns
away from the
hourglass
to look though
the window

there is an
understanding
that this string
of coincidences
that has brought us
all here
is indeed
tragic

these children
playing in the golden
light
and framed
by white picket
fences
belong to them
in
secret

and...
just out of shot
/we assume
the sands
falter