Friday, July 22, 2011


The worst is something I’ve seen from beyond an unopened window. Outside I can see the dirt that’s carried along by the wind, and the seaweed covering the surface of the dark water moon. There are footsteps in the sand.

Leaves crumble and crunch beneath my bare feet, but the night hears this as little but the imaginations of summer, little but the voices haunting autumn’s dreams. Stay in the house little girl: I have not.

Eventually a cherry tree planted somewhere far away becomes my home. I carry it with me as I walk the road, in the wet soil beneath my fingernails and at the tips of my hair. Staying far from the sea keeps me facing forward. Keeping my head bent from the reflection of the moon saves the fool from his past: a state of mind blotted out with the white paint of an immaculate, unintended youth. Tiny red pinpricks imprinted just under the skin hide beneath the shadows of tree trunks. I feel nothing encased in the cotton pillows. Let me Out for I am sewn by your gaze and moved by your fingertips.

The worst is something which comes from outside, from beyond an unopened window. I see someone’s footsteps in the sand. I hear leaves crumble and crunch, little but summer’s imagination, little but the voices which haunt in autumn.

This cherry tree is my home and my fingertips are wet with its soil, my hair caked with it. Keeping my head bent from the moons reflection saves me, the fool, from the past: a state of mind printed in white paint and immaculate, unintended youth. Keep me In. Because I can feel nothing beneath the cotton pillows. There are tiny red pinpricks under my skin, and fingertips under my scars. I am sewn to your gaze, moved only by the pull of your knuckles.

The worst comes from outside. Dirt carried in the wind, seaweed in the moons reflection. Whose questionable footsteps in the sand?

Crumble up the leaves – they are nothing. Figments of your imagination, voices from your nightmares.

Stay, little girl.

Those who look in the mirror are fooled, blotted out with the white paint of youth and shrouded in cotton pillows.

The pinpricks of your fingers. I am sewn to you.

The worst is always inside.


a long way home
a long road down
a convincing poet's regaling gestures
for an opportunity of apathetic indifference;
to pretend, to lie, to rip apart his words, to
the bring of insanity or
just don't


down the twisted undergrowth
out of spiteful justification and
the longing for a way out
there are three daunting tasks and
polished landscapes and
a brick road
down a maze of maple green


underground caverns tell us our history
violent, tempestuous - the necessity of
evolving from red paint to red pen
(or is it vermilion)
and still
mistakes are still


"right is the way of the gods" is the conclusion
no human spell nor
animalistic instinct can inspire this forgiveness
a natural response, the right response
right down a grassy hill
in a red toboggan