Sunday, 30 March 2014

Transmigration Solo

I had forgotten how much I love Joseph Ceravolo's poems. Buy or borrow The Green Lake Is Awake!
Virtue never tested is no virtue at all.
- Billy Bragg

Saturday, 15 February 2014

The Bones Of Night

Images are not numbers. Freud
tried translating them. They are
notes towards themselves.

A walled city represents its own
interests. I want to go in
but I don't trust -- its symbol

is the horse, no, an upended
flask of water. I've been there
once creaking like an old door.

Soundly to venture forward
into desire. This film
I think I've seen, but it changes

memory. I dream an entire
film. A recurring dream. Always,
I am some actor, falling into trees.

My mind churns up such thoughts
to bother me on weekends.
Distract me towards the sea, or

to you. My mind on the whole
has betrayed me. Love is strong.
Sunny villas, much running water.

The grasses hush together
in greenness. This stolen city means
so little. I will write it flawed and beautiful.

Sunday, 17 November 2013

There are few things harder to parse than the minor acts of injustice and betrayal perpetrated by good people. Tonight, riding my bike home, I meditated on this and it finally dawned on me: these acts do not make sense because they are thoughtless. Injustice, for good people, is a kind of wave or gestalt that overtakes them when they are weak. The only answer to such wrongdoing is to feel rage - raw rage- at the fear, not at the person and to refuse to, yourself, be afraid. To respond any other way is bound to hurt someone else, if not today, then soon.

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Last week I rode
Last week I rode my bicycle past
a construction site

Where a crane was high above
a sculpture
to cut a tree

And the worker for the city
called out
called out in a stutter

Tuesday, 15 October 2013

To love a small child is to invest in the future.