Keeping still

I’m going to call this the truth for now…
what you said
I know the truth changes in the moment before each breath
but for now it’s the truth
with every exhalation I see entire realities birthed
and eradicated
so many truths and gods live and die on the breath
since time eternal

Oh how the world (in fire, my soul) reignites when every utterance
wrung forth or received
is considered to be the truth in this moment
to reduce conflict
or to survive peacefully (the still mountain)
that I might hope to experience yet another truth
a new combination of feelings
before the next breath

and perhaps there will be another exhalation
after that
we don’t know

…the suspense is killing me

externally
I imagine there is no response from me at all

Advertisements

Really

the world turns without our intent
there is little we can really do

examine the blocks
stack the blocks
inspect the blocks
destroy everything
gather more blocks
and start again

are we racing towards zero or infinity?

the answer is surely here
in the blocks
with intent
we can diminish
we can act
we can wreak havoc
we can win

what kind of game is this?

we know exactly how to play
with impassioned dedication
with nonchalance
with fear and pain and love
with intent
that can neither create nor impede
_____ the flow of life,
__________ the circumstances,
our own existence

still every day without intent
we do exactly that

we realise no difference
between ourselves and everything (else)
without intending any such outcome at all

Rising

It’s all about the sun rising
the earth spinning it’s face to the sun
once — every day,
a little bit different each time,
a little bit of a skew.

I like to call myself the master of the skew
– in truth or reckoning
I haven’t come close to anything
resembling that particular symphony

or any other. Profoundly ordinary,
I’m just here for the show, which
suffice to say, is better at
5am than 5pm in these parts.

And the point I wanted to stick you with?
Nada. Life is cyclical,
let you and the cycles continue.

I can’t give you the words
I only have language
if you wake with the birds, before 5am,
then you already know

the life I have fallen in love with
despite everything that is society –
civilisation and commodification
be damned, we still get a sunrise.

In the time of small changes
no decree, governmental or otherwise,
can change what is fundamental
to living.

And while we’re on the subject,
I am yet to meet a single person
who has fallen in love with
the society that’s been built here.

I’m not attached to it. As though
a deep grief cannot be reconciled,
5am is not always joy, always truth,
not always vanilla, No. God!

Two days ago it was this simple.
“Where is our song?”
Our songs have been lost.
Not all of them for every nation
but enough for me to feel it like a ghost limb.

We are scattered to the twenty-seven realms
calling, no white man can ever cognise what he has done.
And we’ve still got the jump — we keep existing.
Sunrise and all that.

So the sorry business keeps repeating
and we are exasperated at your inability
to learn from experience.
I don’t relish the task of writing new songs.

It doesn’t even fall to me. I know a
poofteenth of a hair’s breadth of a percentage
of what could be known about this land
yet it is more than any book might ever convey.

Walk it. Start with the birds
who like to tell me when the sun will rise,
and the heavy between state, when I discover
how I am without categorisation.

In one world, I am broken
for crying about lost songs
instead of being alone.

In another, those lost songs
are the history of our people.

And in yet another world, my skin
is too light from all that raping
and breeding out that was done here.
For that sin, I lose an entire continent of relations.

In the only way that matters to me
I show my face to the rising sun and
it has no problem with any of how I came to be
or what you might think of me.
So it’s OK to look up

When it’s just me and the sun rising.

A little rat-a-tat-tap

Group-think tanks
splashing ink like
ASCII with hyperlinks
I’m done with identity
Political expediency
Eugenic entitlement to
Hegemonic enlightenment
I’m losing the need
To plead my reality
Or what I might need
What I will or won’t be
In the service of greed
I leave it all to you
Sisters and brothers
From a billion other mothers
Cos I’m hopeful and hopeless
And no part of me believes
We can group-think our dreams…

…a-rat-a-tat-tap

Sticky

all I have
all is life making shapes
dash, crash, smash
the rocky shore is no more real
than the pain of feeling
tossed about
dressed in rags
of glorious shades

“I will” is lost
e x  p   l    o     d       e        d
into components
constituent distinctions
fractured
lightning-quick reactions
to oh, oh, oh
life just let me go

…but you know
no-one is listening to this
so stop it or I’ll slap you.
I’ll come over there
and SLAP you!

I wish you would

now you’re soothed
and I can’t find the glue

Immediate access code

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
Sensing the many-layered resonances
in the stillness between
this heart-beat and that nerve-pulse,
where the breath lies empty,
time is even weaker than gravity.

Wading through the torrential
outpouring of carefully cultivated
bits of data, coalescing into
a category we might call news,
I am becoming as one attuned –
the seer of mysteries and
the oracle of plutocratic expediency.

The keystone for every good joke
is misdirection, like that time
they drained the oceans and provided
desalination-in-a-box kits for arid lands,
quiescing the climate protectors
with seven generations of indenture
for the privilege of a drop of clean water.

The drunkard, drowning in a deluge
of his own illusions will do anything
to extract one last drink, ad nauseum,
spewing out slack-jawed solutions to
supply chain problems – fracks himself
some lubricant for the road to annihilation.
Mate, we’d better hide his bloody car keys
before he kills us all.

I don’t know all the names
by which you are summoned.
In this bottomless cycle of avarice,
the accretion of our histories is forged
in the bodies of children and tattooed
inside our eyelids. No matter how we’re
chained up, we have always been free.

Our immediate access code,
the soul-memory of our ancestors,
is written in the blood of love.

!