It’s getting to the point,
when every clean strand
of weave becomes a question.
A delicate cloth of bird song,
sweat shop made –
that swallows the sun,
the moon and everything.
My father told me to
learn a trade, so I learnt.
A penny, a pound, a car
a house, food on the table –
and suddenly I can hardly stand.
Trying to sleep off
a miserable night shift.
How long has it been
since I told you, I love you?
Or kissed your cheek?
But now, I have to work-
for the label,
the colour, the shade
the shirt…nothing more.

 
The few fish left dream
that they are born again.
As silver haired stars
with sparkling teeth.
Waiting patiently,
for the voice of the voyager
to tell them again –
you don’t look your age.
And when it starts to rain,
as it always does – the river
and I contemplate life –
unfavorable and long.
Endless gestures,
but infectious as hell.

 
Where shall I rest my heart?
Where shall I rest my soul?
The mind which
sometimes treats me,
gallops through the void.
Bleak as the dusk,
yet awakened from a
dream of flesh.
A desire—to make clean,
make pure.
Before the coming
of another flowering howl.

 
Inside this dream,
a maiden that is my refuge –
a sunlit beauty singing.
I see the moon,
and the gentle rocking
of a plum branch.
And where the
small lilies bloom,
my mouth fills with
your pure perfume.
That moment before
letting go, letting go.

Drawn by the chains of death,
I ask myself –
how long is lifelong?
Buddha days – let the
lightning strike where it will.
I say you can die
chasing the sun.
It is the ceaseless weaving
of uneven waters –
and moments of love
offered in song.
That each day sharpen
my sword – to hold fast
and go on.

I met Bukowski in a dream.
He told me about life,
mainly women and drink.
I told him, I knew something
about women and drink –
and how to ease tender misery.
He wanted to know more
and this tender misery.
So I talked of faceless bones,
scattered in the streets.
Of broken hearts
and broken souls.
And a slow breath
that becomes a silent breath.
Cast out in the autumn wind.
He smiled, pleased
with our work.
And walked quite friendly,
out of my life.

It is pleasant, indeed
when winter ends
and spring cries open.
But I am still desolate
and sick for you.
Softly singing each morning,
of your love and beauty –
yellow as a young flame.

Curtains open,
just for a moment.
A crowded late – night
bus slips past.
Two street workers,
bathed in moonlight –
soak up yesterday’s rain.
Each with an impulse
to scrub everything clean.
I look away, too soon
to say all my good-byes.
And between breaths,
a street silence –
and the whimper
of a nightmare.
Shared with the sea,
the mountains
and all of us.

 
Four days of rain,
and the sky above
has shown no feeling.
A knife with jade handle,
cutting into life.
The sun and the moon
are two arrows,
sweeping the sky’s edge –
wilting of this heart.
And then a loving
flash of lightning,
murmuring midnight –
and filled with
banners of hope.
Everything evolves, some say
and bitter tears come sweet.
Let me first
finish my duties,
and then my great
journey begins.

 
The river is the
same old river.
The flowers exactly
as they were.
Mountains
rumble and fall.
Yet the insects
and the birds,
still sing over
shattered lives.
Aware of illusion,
I walk slowly.
Becoming one, with
all the things I see.