The Long and Short of it

On my watch as the hands move in their regular orbit of moments
now is infinitesimal, a value approaching zero.
In my diary there are numbers marking the passing days,
dates to be kept, and birthdays to be remembered.

I remember my mother telling me “tomorrow never comes”
my daughter, Lila, now teases her brother on tenterhooks
that his tenth birthday will never come
and yet like tectonic plates slipping it does.

Tomorrow never comes. Now is infinite.



Tree of Knowledge

I saw them, the pair of them, bovine-eyedOld tree
staring at each other as if freshly created.

Their pallid bodies were naked and scaleless —
they would freeze in the winter’s sight.

I offered them fruit for their hunger
suggested they wear skins for the cold.

They cursed me, called me snake,
said I must crawl on my belly.

Don’t they know my name, I am knowledge;
my body coils through myths and fantasy.

Squeezes out the juice of illusion,
sucks the venom out of religion.

They ate of the tree of knowledge —
they have knowledge – and that is good.


Convex and Concave

I come home to a room of discarded foam letters Stairway
for printing on paper with splashes of paint,
cloth bags of dolls legs and silver sweet wrappers
my four year old daughter jars in my head.
I struggle with a load of bundles and boxes
that come from the office to be juggled and stacked.
I ruminate on stairways from etchings of Escher
on thought trains to be scheduled on busy rail tracks.
Somewhere in a room of brilliant white walls Fuji
made of Japanese gossamer with pliable oak floor
my eyelids can flutter like falling plum blossoms
on the side of mount Fuji rolling down to the shore.
Convexly and concavely I struggle to balance
put my left shoe forwards on the rightwards side.

ppConvex and Concave



When I explore bipolar lands
my numb ghost hands lobotomise,
clinically insinuating themselves
with a glacial lock

I polish the ice of distorting pane
a porthole compressing and dimming
my submarine eye’s pressured view
on prehuman ghoul fish obsessing

Dropped low or pulled high
the pressure inside is a constant
moan of fatiguing metal
If the ice pane melts or shatters
I will breath the fresh air
or drink the deep black ink


Only the blind use their fingers to see

and so I sit
and close my eyes
touch finger to thumb
feel under the skin

I breathe deeply
deliberately in and out
run breathy fingers
over my insides
massage the ball in my stomach
soothe the nagging of thoughts

I breath out
with the longness of sighing
massaging the tissues more deeply
expelling fermenting thoughts
the bilings of undigested meetings

With the freshness of clear spring water
bubbles swell out of the solution
rising calmly to the surface
clinging to the walls for support