this morning
presents as a
wave function
it's curve
restless against
my
spine

the scene regenerates
as the ideas
coalesce
around the
mans poor
sense of
composure

he struggles
to walk against
the crowd
against the
detritus of
500 years
of civilized
behavior

he struggles
with themes
of
self determination
and
self deprecation
and
see's instead
his arms
falling away
as he
tacks
through the
mass
migration
of 'contemporary
explanations'

all the while
he murmurs inaudibly
"i am the
smallest
most inconsequential
exception to
the rule..."

the scene is
now composed
of a small
tree
upon a hill
upon which
he looks up
at
from the base
and smiles

he understands that
sideways momentum
is with him
now
an accumulation
of absurd
turns

all this sawdust
dissipates
as the hot
northerly winds
build up
beyond the
hours
bending properties
there is no further
risk
to our ideals
as
the tonnage
is poured out and
over the
indentation
no further knowledge
about what has
been
lost here
as
winds carry
our scattered
brains
across
this
landscape
in an expansion
process
that blunts
our
senses

into this
lasting sentiment
the street performer
pours her
soul
and while she steps
forward
for our benefit
her posture
is all
thumbs
and
dampened
sound

i think i
feel for
her
but all i can
do, nonetheless
is watch
and pour my thoughts out
into a
nearby
drain

we are
isolated
and retired
and beaten down
until our
jaws
threadbare
like our
notions of
apology
quaint and
damaged
while small
glimmers of
hope
hesitate
behind
grey layers
of
fog

the understatements
accumulate under the
stairs
weighed down by
an age of
dense particles
reducing
our
ideas
to small
platforms

and so it is to disappear
to render oneself
out of this
landscape
make it fold around
you
in a zen
attainment
of absolute
zero

this energy
is
all
is all that
is recovered
after
when
outside our
hours
we suppress
all thoughts
of
energy
is
all
and
when
what is recovered
beyond
boundaries
of
sensation
is
all
acounted for
in
growth
properties
of follicles
and
when
is all
known
about the spectacle
about
the
device
departing
is all
recorded
by
small
fragments
and
is all
expressed
as
code
when
horizons
shift
and
sensibilities
drift
when
is all
all
all
all
red
shift
-ed
and
when is
falling
might mean
something
again
might
mean
is
all
might
mean
to
fall
or
an end
of all
energy

as the lines
drop forth
and the afternoon
widens
while
/when
people gather
and spontaneously
hum
in sync with
the stained
artifacts
of modern
mechanisms

they can dance
too
but today
choose
not
-focussing instead
on the
intersecting angles
and the
harmonies
of crushed
iron

uneven distribution
of pigment
on paper
is unsettling
in this
sacrificed
light

inside this public
square
where there are 14
people
standing /idly
quietly
slipping in and out
of array
sets
/geometrical
significance

is settled
only in askance
appraisals
a sense of
temporality
tripped up
on the final
misaligned
step

quietly before
the public
sphere
detects
your presence

in the 14
becoming self-
aware
loosing their touch
with idleness
and
instead groping
towards
the
ugly
finale
/geometric
certainties

the old man
reaches over
and pats the
younger man's hand
in
acceptance
he tells the
young man
that
even though
the both
now share
these cloudy
eyes
there once
was
at time
....
a time
when he saw
fire
and could reach out
to its
subtle depths

i am a set
of impaired
mechanisms
left
overnight
in the
dew
and
rain
and
raw
morning
sun
light

the earth has its
perspective
that exists
beyond our
small horizons
and limited
reach of
hand

if i can
grasp these
discarded leaves
and scatter
them across the
sky
then i will never
be able to
know
the infinite
subtleties
of
dead senses
feedback

this smallness
exists in the way
that light
falls
on the
undergrowth

these hours are
responsible
-for the monsters call
-for the
inflamed
knuckles
-for evenly distributed
grinding
sensations

these hours have
found us all
at the bottom of
the garden
plunging our hands
past the ice
past the frozen
layers of algae
until our eyes
are soaked blue
in sympathy with
the
sky

we
have no sense of
responsibility
or temperance
of anger
or
....

there is always
a sense of foreboding
left in suspension
before breaking
ice

a fear of
perfectly preserved
earth
and pivots
of perspective
that encompasses all
and leaves
trace elements
for future
paleontologists to
ponder

for
we are the disruption
points that can only
be accounted for
in the revelation of
greater
distribution
structures

the unexpected scent
of chocolate
floods me
and dumps me out
again
in Brunswick St

a small component
of wonder
stirs
-resets the patterns
for the hours
remaining

I have been listening to
this empty
music now
I have been listening to it
for a long time
untill it has
absorbed my
skin
blemishes
-turned them into
a murky
soup

all motivations
are stranded
in this dead
land
you can
run/swim
in any
direction
without
ever
being granted
a starting
post

the sound's
footfall leaves
an imprint on
fresh
ruled page
that has
complicated
textures
and small
asides of
strained breathing
i can see
smaller
particles
stir through
the relief
settle
and gather
in pools
at its
base

these swirling
eddies
spill across the neat
ruled edges
a distant
lo-fi
carbon stamp
of an
impromptu
tone
that rests
where my
left hand
would have
been
without
the cutting
winds

i am the light
removed from all
subtlety
i am the harshest
edges
caught folding away
for the season
for the evening
for the contaminated
glory
[of an
afternoon without
any sense
of
tone]

the wave of vibration
crossed from
port to starboard
-quietly dissipating
in the
perfumed cabin
air

-quietly isolating
all foreign
objects

quietly stretching
out
our finer
sensibilities
and rubbing
away
the most resolute
purpose
until all
future orientations
are set as
reflections
of failing
orange
hues

we are still attempting
to move forward
even though all objects
here
are dominated by
curved surfaces
even though our
motions
are deflected at the point
of origin
even though all
inertia
is aborted
at the moment
of commitment

we attempt
to move forward
when
all forward momentum
is obsorbed
by the roar
of diesel
engines

these seventy-two seconds
are separated out
by commas
and pressed
into a strange
axis

my cold hands
have been replaced
by these
warm
linear
carbon
utensils

the seven hours
that was given
to the
task
(dragging
my inert body
to the
doorway)
is now replaced
by
3

from the furthest
reaches
the darkest hues
are reporting back
-plotting courses
-savaging the senses
the resistance capacities
fail sharply
in the light of
compromised
dialogues

i could hold out my
palm to you
but there are no lines
left to read
as all the light
simply rolls off
-falling softly
into obscure
angles

the wave of
vibrations
lingered in his left side
as he watched
her pour
another drink

she seemed
-unaffected-
by the Gaussian
light functions
as if these were
incorporated into
her
reflexes

subtly deployed
counter-weights
to the
fractal edges

while i push forward
from my current
frame of reference
then the ideals
of [set] patterns
loose their
function

i am no air-
stop
i am more than-
just a displacement
of
sky

while i can
swivel gracefully
to the earth
then you can-
grant me
the independence of
dance

my enjoyment
of this day
is principled
and
aesthetically unadventurous

this is
good music
a warm breeze
on naked feet
and a slow unfolding
of tension

i am surprised
/delighted
by the direction
the sun
takes

i have presented
a carbon face to the
world
i have rubbed my
ideals rudely
into the mechanisms
feet

i have not
been held responsible
for my
actions
until these templates
were reversed
and the stories
told
in relief

my [carbon] expressions
are a narrative
set
of absent edges

we are navigating
via the trace patterns
of pollens
while
our noses
twitch and send
feedback
to
reference
memories
etched into the
grain
paneling

we hold our palms
/out
\open
to complete
the
descent

-we do not so much
fall
as fail gracefully
from the
sky

whereupon
our
noses
hit the ground
with a accompanying
crumbling
sensation

capillaries collapse
and
familiarity surrenders

....
another landscape
is laid bare
to the tourists
baser
instincts

variations of white
are awash
in the air currents
sliding over
taunt
canvass
as we purge
our navigation
systems
of outdated
technologies
[identity
relative position
and
temporality]
precipitating a dropping
sensation
[one is obliged
to accept]
in our
'modern' appropriations
of latitude and longitude

i am all
stabilized
now
while
all points
of the compass
are in deep recess
drifting
as a paper dirigible
in the airs
tides
folding into
scattered patterns
of white
noise
while the earths
magnetic fields
press its coarse
textures into
lobes of the brain
that quantifies
reaction

the dogs
have set all
responsibilities for
the day
inside a
limited
perimeter

in this
exercise/set
they are
modern dance
partners

they are all
hunches,swagger
and
aftfull
pauses

he came to
realize
(while putting
a pencil
back together)
that
the sky is
held together
by a
limited
number of pieces

reach out at just the
right angle
tap it lightly
and you can
make it
de-
-flate

[-For kemadrin: the composer (with jon7) of definite]

i am beholden to
the texture
of sound
crumbling
when it has no
where else to
go
but perpendicular
to the fault lines
of
fragments

when I find
such sounds
i will always
reach out
to run
fingertips
against the
coarsest
edges

-blurred
transition
stations
where cognition
is
raw
and
uncontaminated




[more of kemadrin's excellent music can be found here
or from itunes (as Secured Vessel) here]

the dirt on
her shoes
is a relative
ecosystem
that responds
to the fluctuations
of architectural velocities

that is why
-she tells me-
she
twitches
in the presence
of too many
right angles

this hour
illuminates us
all as we
stand
waiting for the
3:15 to
Dandynong
our hands
sweating
in our pockets
as we
brace our eyelids
against
severe
antarctic winds
and step
forward
in alternating
patterns
to stare
forward
into the abyss
that is our
accelerating
lack of action
culminating in
in
in
in all
but a
flutter of consciousness
that briefly lets
through the light
and resets all
our relative
positions
as a shudder
passes down
the line
of recognition
and universal acceptance
where
we understand that
3:15 is dragging us
further
into this night
past the faltering light
past all sense
of it
until all we have
left of it
is our
alternating dance
patterns

this morning
i have crushed
my sense of
aesthetics
behind a warm
coffee

i severed all
ties with
knowledge
and am in
the process of
marketing
blank
states
of
being
to
the
over
leveraged

the street performer
has
four days left
to render the text
that will
save us all

the passing
trade
becomes aware
of this
while stepping over
him
they begrudge
a small allotment
of their
attention

the part of
their thoughts that
decodes
music

the
sub-routines
of the nervous system
that
coordinates movement
around obstacles

and
the reflex
that
relishes the
sensation of rain
dripping down
from one's eyebrow

as one
absently watches
four days
of chalk
art being
washed
away

all imaginations
collapse
inside these
reformated
days

i am holding
the air
responsible

all angular
consequences are
reduced to this
mark
where i
can not step
further
for
this place is
where
all angular responsibilities
come
together
for
this is the
place
where i have been
bested by
a conspiracy of
architecture and
earthly
rotations

when i eventually
fall forward
i expect to be
absorbed into
the worm comfort
of
intersecting lines
and
near perfect
surface
tensions

when
i fall forward
there will be a
transcendence of dimensions
waiting for
me

the grain runs through
its permutations
saturated
by the late
mornings
compromised
light

exhausting
its senses of
directions

by the time
the edge arrives
all energy
has been retired

i have been
startled out of
complacency
and my eyes
roll
forward
accordingly

the old man
watched the airship
slide over
this broken
landscape

he recognized them
as tourists
buffeted by
dark
curiosities

he thought about
his own
sets
of resistance
tensions

before the
free fall

before the patterns
reset the
game

while this
after
noon
is isolated
the 'seconds
of thought'
are
compressed
and elongated
and finally
pummeled
down

i have mistaken
this supple
air
as an honest
assessment
before

i have pushed
my eyelids
up too it
and only
imagined
that it pressed
back
gently

she finds a
stillness
here among the
folding crowds

as the intimidating
afternoon
is compressed
by a polarized
/simple breeze

she has pushed forward
against
the precipice
all momentum
is reduced to
a simple
phrase-

well meet, my friend

--------

he listens to
her
silently/a part
of the background
features
waiting for
exhaustion to
set in

-stepping forward
-letting her
fold
into his arms

whereupon
she realigns this
relative movement
as a reference set
of actions

the resistance was mild
at first
a slight tingling
sensation
below the pads of
his fingers
(just below a
sense of identity)

after a while
he could feel it
slide
through other
extremities
as a pulsing vibration
an analogue
texture

by the time the
airship
banked to the left
the rhythms of the resistance
overtook
all
and their intricate
details became
an adequate
substitute
for language

bright city lights
below the glass observation deck
refracted
off his feet
and from his pivot
all concepts of
geography
was born
and died

when the resistance finally
entered his
heart
he was
/taken
\by
/surprise

we move in
increments
as the airship
is nudged
by
/slight
evening breezes

the moorings
hold fast
/patiently
securing against
all
better inclinations

while worse ideas
are still
before

and better days
are
enshrined
as digital photographs

the sun drops
as
anticipation
ebbs
among the passengers
and onlookers
alike and as
the orange and blue
hues deepen
-arcs
temporality-
between
the moment of expectation
and the moment
(usually missed)
of the event itself

the moorings fall
and
the city's skyline
slides across

we are appropriated
by all the
sky

the ceiling fan
has no secrets
left

it goes on
blithely
misunderstanding
directions

the song it sings
/softly
saves us
all

i am carried
at this moment
by the sour tones
of years past

i am all responding
energy

i am a tail wind
gone astray

brought forward by all the
inertia
and
dumped unceremoniously
in what appears as a
directionless sky

as my energy
dwindles
down to a
sponge migration

/
the dogs
have abandoned
/this
/day

i have composed
myself
this day
from a set of
misunderstandings

i have
refined the
argument down
to a
toe

the complexity of the
other mourners faces
offered no refuge
until he found himself
-standing
-staring down at a
couch
where his grandmother
had sat
after the
last funeral

he remembered her
then
he found her in amongst
the old stories
and platitudes
withered
but still holding court
as another set of mourners
shuffled in and out

the man had
stood
taller than this before
and while
he
resisted the urge to
bow
he found
nonetheless
in the simplest
actions
/body movements
reflections of
the cringing/reflex

she turned to the
inspector
and started explaining
to him
about the fault she'd found
-the hairline fracture
subtle and delicate
almost imperceptible
almost nothing, really
I mean, to most people

but she didn't consider
herself
most people
and while she had
at first
bravely tried to
ignore the issue
-as the years went on
I mean look at it!
when you hold it up to
the light
/no, from the other side, silly
well it just
ran
the whole length
of the object
-it altered the lines
-it upset the balances
-it ruined
the total effect

as the inspector held it
up to the light
/just so
a gateway opened up
to him
the lines were spreading out
disturbing the
mechanisms
and he imagined them
reaching out further
-to the greater world

he saw the object
fall through its
purpose

the fragments
are frozen
as shards

the hours
are in therapy

and
the monsters
are retiring

everything is
worthwhile

all the smallest
details
all the complications
of movement
present opportunities
to dance
in unique rhythms

to find
silent
jubilation's

to express
abstract formulations
of gratitude

all responses
are hollowed out
in the aftermath

-this landscape
she said
-has become too
rich
in texture
to sustain us

small embers
of hope
and confidence
respond to the afternoon
breeze

unsettled
but still at
play

i am all that's
left over
from an encrusted earth

i am all that
remains
after the obliterated pages

i am a drifted
assemblage
of details

i am a tablecloth
stain
making its passage
along a terrible landscape

all sound is
reduced
down
to
a
murky
soup
of
battered aspirations

the stop-sign pulsates
with the evening
gradiants

it is
falling from grace
in the small
community
of whalers

it says:

the salt air
has encrusted
my eyelids
and
each time i bat them
in sleep
(or expressions
of humility)
they grow
heavier

I have come to accept
the salt as my
gentle ally
-softly guiding me
towards
the
/original
/state

a soap-star
with the Yahoo Serious
haircut
signals some kind
of new
reckoning

perhaps an
eyepatch
will restore
balance
to the universe

I push my toe
out
against the coldness
of space
and the
music of air
responds back
with a gentle
nudge

everyday
there is something
unique
and delicate
that is
/given up
/reveled
something small
and visceral
to be observed
and thankful for
something
to be held up to
the light
and squinted at
until it dissipates

the hours respond to
gentle prodding
casually stretching
out
towards the
horizon
gradients

he mapped
his future
out
in the tire
tread of
a dusty
road

but then the
rains came
and
washed this
future
clean

he had
no choice
but to
stop

tabula rasa

he wouldn't
sell pressure gauges
for a
living

he wouldn't
meet that
girl
who was
drunk and
wore a hat
too big
for her

he wouldn't
plunge his
arm in the
water
retrieving
a
watch lost
while
ice fishing

his car
keys
scrapping
against
ice

his nose
pressed
to the ground

and
he wouldn't
need
a haircut
every second
tuesday

listening
to his barber
tell stories about
The
Lebanon
and wondering
why he kept
returning

instead
he
stood
and watched
water
seep into
fence
posts

pale colors
becoming...

the woman
in the leopard
skin
coat
who
barely
see's over
her steering
wheel
cut
through
the
inside
lane

from the
disjointed
entrance
(grand in its
compromised
perspectives)
the ideal
method of navigation
is through
perforated
dance steps
we are all
guided by
stone
textures
underfoot
and it is
only
when the
soles
are rough
and raw
can we find
our way
home
when
legs
buckle
under
and knee's
crack
against
serrated
edges
does
perspective
find its
place/again

when the
tallest of us
stumbles
the lights
flicker
and definitions
pause
while
we
wait

I fall past
all standard
deviations

I inhabit
retired
eyes

hands
slipping

saturated
gestures

the performer stretches
his palm
out
in the sweet
spot
of the outdoor stage
he holds
until/while the
passer-by's
gather
in
they are
leaning forwards
just
past
their tipping points
they are shuffling
in
as the traffic band
narrows
they are
within earshot
of a strategic
whisper

when the performers
palm
drops
they will not
be sure
what
they heard
until the next time
they open
a strange cupboard
and reach
in
for a simple
glass tumbler

palm forward
hesitant pause
the inherent
pleasure
of an
uncomplicated gesture

the unexpected joy
of this day is
held
in the feel of
an old jacket
against my
bare
arms

I can balance out
my fear
of the sun
with these
thin
socks
in the cool
afternoon
breeze

I work towards
an
understanding
draped in
fading
linen

I am not
as lost
or
irrellevent
as I thought
I was

and indeed
I am gratefull
for those
minor
interuptions

diversions
on the nature
of narrative

I have crossed out
this sentence
so many times
before
when I first
heard it as
a fragment
spoken in the
staccato
of pebbles
on water
when I tripped
over it
on the way to
an early
show
when I unexpectedly
open the
door and saw your
best clown
sad face
when the late
orange light
had chased
the last doubts
away
when the
floorboards became
unforgiving
and when
creaking bones
answered more
questions than
were asked
when I sought
solace in
the number of
digits I had
to present
and when the world
was more than
just an accumulation
of weak
atomic
surface tensions
when it began
to sink into
my
/fractured
/vacuum
that a good
command of
language was...
was...
when I decided
to offer you
this last
banal
sentence
instead

what is left
behind
in this scorched
landscape
is a limited
set of
lines
that intersect only
at
dew points

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