334 on 22.6 /2

The edges of me feel yucky. In that brief moment before "No", I was slurped up by the foul lips of the immediate future. Within that single second, everything which would have happened after a "Yes" happened anyway. In hyper-speed. Condensed. And therefore with unbearable intensity.

I was put into a situation which gave me two detestable options. So that, regardless, I was left with a diseased conscience. No illness from poorly chosen actions, but from that pause lingering in me. That hesitation itself had a voice which screeched up and down the long, narrow cavity of the broken bus and gluttonously ate my footsteps along Beechcroft Avenue and accompanied me to bed. A putrid companion.

Sincerely, I asked because of your props, not because of your blocking or your delivery.

Strangely, no fear from me. Rather, some pity.

But still, a yucky feeling... One which leaves me hovering at the window suspiciously, wondering whether to break the ritual of open curtains. Questioning, too, how Christmas can be mid-winter. Not in this country, I suppose. Though maybe in your native land. Which explains the back-to-forwardness.

It feels invasive knowing society allows for such encounters. I am not a movie. I am not your vehicle to spontaneity. I am Natalie Maria, trying to go home.

334 on 22.6

arbitrary bus questions
(second, and seconds)
Sam, Sam I am
when six months prior drags itself back into your life
the one who the almost-note was not intended for
...still sitting in my christmas stocking
the un-judged chance to be awful
the chance to lift your eyelids
a chance to fulfill your unwanted wantings
and wantons
squirming and worming its ways
into your home street
(luckily, soon to be left)
like year seven and eight
he is at my window
my imaginary bathroom window
"go away, go away" I think--


I am ashamed at the part of myself which walks with
proud of the self which walks in power
but not so proud
not so proud that I will be an open invitation
so proud as to decline
here I exercise the number eighth
tomorrow being my un-Saturday
and you, with another face
might find your irrational question answered
and, "should I have worded that differently?"
(yes)


but a six-month hiatus holds no validity
or does, in some other place--
Wellington, for example
I would return there, yes, without regret
for toothy gaps
but not for ten day sales
in my now hometown
those are reserved for Julians only
a union, in fort
and even then I let it slip by
cautious as ever
assertive without courage
thus are the two ends of my Self.

with heart

It's as if, when I touch them, little shards of stability drop out of me - specifically, from the inside of my left leg, from the base of my spine, from the edges of my jaw, from between my eyebrows - culminate in my wrists and forearms, and are sucked up by their hot, sticky, broad and bony backs.

My first thought when the tears came pushing through was, "I need to take my hair out."

how to make friends

try to match me
you'll find compatibility
I'll find in me your opposite, and draw it out
you'll see that which you chose not to
I'll play the rescuer
(what's new)
and what I knew:
we'll both be caught.
I ought to know better
than to offer up my head
before the rest of me

a recurring feeling

the voice
said, go
down to the end
there'll be
someone
you know there

I
got there
and I
was by
myself

and still appear normal

here in
this world in
my own world
I do not look at you
if I am talking, it is beside you
my eyes are preoccupied elsewhere
my tongue finds its own meaning, carved in bad enunciation

I am either
with myself
or
with the
internet

I haven't seen the world in days
though I have been living twenty years

I am learning that most people are incredible, except not.

duet

ear attached to arm
lying
on side
wriggling
to add to existing stuck arm
then, onto other side
then both arms
partnering
one improvises
watches a particular part of the other's body
not mirroring
but somehow
linked, or joined

Where does this inherent sadness come from
Why am I opened up by something good

2012

How do they do that? Splashing our details around the open air -- "Now, is Mister Saurali still living on Francis Street in Grey Lynn? Great." Great. So now, Sir, I will find him.

And, "Are you still together?"

How to deal with a sensitivity like that?

Booming it down the phone:
"I am a man and you are not."
"I am the nation's authority and you are not."
"I am the indigenous infestation of this land and you are not."
That is: We are white and you are not.

Really, in the end, it's not about skin colour. It's about birth right and acting like you belong. Dress, speak, think like us and you are in. If not, you are not.

Yes, white babies cry horribly too. Scream, kick, spit, shit. Grab your hair greedily. We all need to eat and stay warm and decipher this world, but we may not all eat or read or have soft soles. Those luxuries are an earned privilege. If you don't match our neo-Nazi checklist, get back in the queue please.

Oh yes, 2012 has arrived -- and it's not even December.

in silo

I am a child of this city.

I walk in its busy air
I sit wrapped in blankets in its parks
Sleep for a brief hour of mourning on its benches
Slip my toes in its mud
Meet with its people
Breathe with its urine-stained stairways
Escape its foresty borders
Learn its etiquette --

How quickly I have conformed to non-conformity.

I write with its cyclists
Set sail on the land
Camp in Aotea Square - but not in protest,
Just 'cause

Some of my bumper is fraternizing with the narrow offices-come-parking buildings.
I roller coaster down the motorways
swerve, crash, survive
I block up the roads
with my emergencies, my democratic right

I give birth to the next generation.

I sit sheltered in the light of the SkyTower
Putrid orange
I am,
The cliche:
A "Jafa", and reveling in it

I am running the concrete suburbs
Listening to local music
Hastily side-stepping Margaret's ghost
Small-faced gait
Straight ahead

I am the minority.

of hand-held gestures
and held-held devices
and hand-held love

Every inch of my travels begs a
specifically-selected soundtrack
Piano, when outdoors
Violin for in
I drink my wine atop Mount Eden
and my coffee in St. Kevin's
My daily, fortnightly initiation
Parnell Chocolate Treat, the locals'
show-off for visitors
Which even there (a milky treat parlour)
accommodates this city's
"diet aware"

We are
almost
partly --
not quite,
really
Twenty-Four Hour Operational
(less so if we are not bin-scavengers)

I am a child of this city
You will find my placenta in the trash.