This house is barely holding itself up

cracked through from floor to ceiling

beam to beam

wracked by three years' violent jolting

but held up by the two bodies transferring

around it; underneath it, in it

blessing their meals

tincturing their daughter's heartaches

inviting strangers in for one week stays.

Undo it, and also know how to reconstruct it.

undo it and find knowledge

leave it ornament and remain ignorant

or undo it and also know how to reconstruct it

If I put music to it, would you allow me my esotericism? 

in-orchid

having lain back on the bed:

feet up the wall

music beckoning a shout in my ear,

the possibility of that drawer...

I wasn't reimbursed for it, so

hell, I might as well spend it

we're all sanity to lose

if not yet lost, coming -

"all's not lost," said they -

well who is 'they'? And who's

authority have I?

to lend my own ear to 

something conjured up on a Sunday night, Sunday

morning, mourning the loss of

hungover jogs through the city

(some of the times in which I feel most alive)

morning drags me towards itself, 

through sleep

I come out the other side

dishevelled, more lethargic than

when I entered my non-existent dreams

in unspoken hours,

having imagined how I was sleeping

in other beds, in other seasons, in other countries

with other conditions

Parkfield, Central Park

it's just a dodgy anagram, really

poor thing's lost a few letters

gained some it never meant to

found itself backwards

man, I understand that,

understand being

flat-backed on the bed

book in hand

totally immersed, but

not getting out.

as how, when tramping
you go the
speed of the slowest
walker, now, the
left foot
must
slow down
for the right

fire

There's a
fright-lurch
panic-sink
shock-cold
fear-shake

latched on me,
that usually temporary grip -- usually
usurped by logic-survival -- is
sleeping with me tonight.

I watched the girl from down the road
throw up on a tree, her
little sister's bedroom
crumpled into their
lounge

the oranges and yellows making
silhouettes of the palm trees
better than any sunset could

Friday 13th, you've out-
done yourself.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/national/news/video.cfm?c_id=1503075&gal_objectid=11124493&gallery_id=137825

from May

It's as if each time we return here, we are faced with incremental amounts of oddities to navigate. The challenge becomes greater each lifetime. More and more is required of us at each soulful advancement. It parallels our growth on each individual life: that the more we learn, the more that is required of us to be learned. Life, the exponential evolution of technology; yet our biological revolution remains steady, anchored in time. What are we to do?

I fear that eventually I will return and my bones will not know at all how to fold against the edges of computers. I will be sent with near-impossible tasks, the world driven irreparably forward by expansion, my settled self wishing only to walk, read and eat. 

michael (again)

Look who's back on the doorstep:

that old enigma
that familiar slouch
in scapula, in cardigan,
in burned-out eye-grin
sheepish -- yet
un-apologetic

neck on neck a brief moment
shoulder under clavicle in greeting

through the door, into present
conversation ...
back to table, past ...

I slip elegantly back, the
habits of
those ideas,
compelling as they are
as you are, in first moments
... as anything is, in time; until time.

and sure, the first: "You on painkillers?"
in foot's direction, a small nod

and I explain, "it's
  too much effort
either for you, or for your liver
I don't have time" (or patience, and
I'd have even less time if I did --
him being the catalyst many
wasted evenings, afternoons, days)

"I've spelt my encoding
it lacked warmth
I slept
that was it

but if you want them, they're
yours." Which is
more or less
what I said
in the kitchen
last October
without words

Then it stunk for ages.

my pragmatism suggests
opening drawer, follow through
but I just
close the door, and
go to bed
without goodnight.

to bed

my eyelashes have clamped themselves to the

tops of my cheekbones, but my

thoughts, like restless children rampant on a kindergarten mat

refuse to sit still

dear

in the overgrown
back yard, on the
second day of spring

I slip the corners of my
garments off my
newly freckled
shoulders

I am
home alone; sunshine