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catching a bus to the drowning

Jumped onJumped offJumped inAnd slowly,Wetly,Sank....

waiting for Rangitoto

There is no comfort in this night.No rum coloured sunset, no gently brewed laughter that bubbles from your throat.All there is is this dark,that seeps in through sodden skin and builds icicles on your bones.I am waitingfor Rangitoto to burn the skies,again....

here.

here,where the roots of treesbreak the bones of hillshere,where the sunlight splutters and failshere.this really is it,isn't it,righthere....

I. Will not. Floss

IWill notFloss. IWill notStick bits of plastic in my mouthto rip between the edges of my teethand shred my sensitive-ish gumsto validate your bloody marketingand wholesale purchase of dentist gowns. IWill notShame the memory of my head-hunting ancestorswho grew bitter herbs in the wild-wild hillsto boil them with fermented lardand came from a cave and left across a lakeand have left me here to pretendat being them. IWill notFloss. And when these teeth rot and dieand these pow...

these hands

i think of apu every time I sharpen our knives. these handscould be his hands,holding the stonecupping the watertesting the blade. chemtatrawta chuan chem a tat rawt rawt a... but they aren't:these handsare flabby and softand haven't killedin 13 years. here the chicken are slaughtered by specialists,and our hands only bear the memory of the blood. there is power, power, wonder working power, in the blood... and his hands slit throatsand plucked feathersand gave than...

in the places that we aren't

there's a song, sometimes,in the places that we aren't;there's a scream there's a sigh there's a smile. there's the earth, sometimesin the places that we aren't;there's the sky there's the wind there's the tide. in the places that we aren't,you and i....

Hawi-lo-par

there is a darkness in these stacks,rising from the stardust and skinof other people's memories. our memories are buriedwith the ancient deadand grow as thehawi-lo-par: flowers of forgettingor remembering which?i can't recall....