A Blue Black Light (An old favourite circa 11/2005)

A blue black light stood
All around us like a lynch mob,
Holding smiles instead of pitchforks.

You didn't know it, but there we were. I was back in my backyard,
Talking with my old friends. You could see them
And smell them
And hear me talking with them,
But you just hung back and observed.

You watched me rough their skin with my smooth palm
And internally balked as I skipped in giant sized steps
Through their dead, shed needles.
If I could have I would have kissed your hand there
And pressed it to my forehead.
Your thoughts all intermingled with mine.
We were trees for the briefest of moments and I never wanted to leave.
Making not love, but truth.

----- this is what making truth feels like:
-------------- (and remember, this is REAL)

You were the bottom of the sea and I am sediment.
We both inhabit the entire earth because land is land
An infinite circle.
I settled on you after a long time of being disrupted by currents
And being sucked in an spat out by various creatures.
Here I come, can you see? Shut your eyes, ocean's end.
I have found my way by pure accident to your deepest nook,
To lay for a while in the cold dark calm of your hidden imagination.
While I am here and focused on you, nothing can intrude.
The dark means there are no expectations.
We can only find our way by feeling how I have fallen on your unknown contours.
The unseen is truthful because only our imagination knows it. Verification seems irrelevant.
The only products of our union are trust and enlightenment;
Dreaming the same dreams
And caring for an others' soul
As if it were your own.

Friday Euphoria

Feel like a kid today. Feel like a kid but with the knowing of an adult. When you lay your new joy over past sadnesses, did you ever notice how it makes the joy EXPLODE off the page - like fireworks... technicolour and bold, you can almost taste them, they permeate my being so.

Today I saw chandeliers hanging from under bridges, chandeliers glowing in the boughs of great gum trees, I felt the cool calm of those trees breathing on me as I stared up in to their beautiful shapely arms. I saw the blueness of the light there. The heartbreaking subtle pink of the toon tree. The intense azure blue of a cateye on the road and the bright, lush, downy green of a maple, bursting with new leaf, the lovely pooled black of vintage VW beetle.

All these things I see with no stimulants. None of that black coffee, none of those other vices... All these things bring amazing happiness, it swells and my heart feels like it's the size of my whole being. I want to hug my heart. I drink it in - eyes willing to look at things like it's the first time and my heart seeking joy like a missile locked on its target.

A Letter (Sept 4 2009)

Dearest,

It's raining like never before. It's so beautiful. The sky is like a layer cake in grays and lemon yellow, pale and sad. I'm perched up here, sipping my lebanese coffee and just watching it all fall in the sweet, downcast silence of the afternoon. Lately, I like to just be at home without music playing. Just to have the peacefulness of the day; that clean, clear gap around four o'clock when there's no one else around - I shut my eyes and I try to hear as many sounds as I can:

- Rain on the roof, on the street, on the trees
- Cars going slowly by in the puddles on the road
- Birds eep-ing, hiding in their nests. I imagine them nuzzling each other for warmth, little
ones tucked under wing
- The plants - flaxes in the front yard, lapping up the rain with thirsty tongues
- the sound of sunlight breaking like sheet diamond through the clouds on the horizon, sounds
something like silent thunder

I had thought to myself, "imagination's gone". I look down to count the knots in my stomach and think "this day... sometimes it feels like this goddamn day is like driving arrows in to the dirt.
There is no purpose to this! how many times should one ask themselves 'what the fuck am I doing with my life'? before they get on with it. I am forever asking myself this question. It's a loop". I look out the window and the rain is bleeding down the pane. I look out the window and I search for a rainbow - Kerouac says 'What is a rainbow, Lord? A hoop for the lowly'. I stumble and choke over the beauty of that phrase. It grabs me and shakes me and makes me know that life is for living. Keep Going.

On these days when I feel overwhlmed by the bleakest, darkest feelings, I know it's time for a shake up. The winds of change, as they say, will inevitably blow through this dusty place, dragging all things lying lazily about to a swift end at a high cliff, leaving the tiles, walls and wooden shelves clean... ready for a bit of a sweep, then a deep breath and start again... futility forgotten. I want these days to be filled with bright colours. Hot Air Balloons of hope elegantly traversing the skies of my life and brilliant adjectives and adverbs gracing the pages of my days. Swirling lights and movement, strong winds on tops of hills in a rainstorm, clandestine kisses in such moments, desperate and holy and transcendental - moving me - sending my stomach in to a flurry, like it may be chasing it's own tail up in to a tornado.
My wild-fire nature will flare and rise from the pit, orange and yellow and white, climbing so high it will reach the stratosphere where the sky is at its most midnight blue, I will throw my arms of flame up! IN to the air! and praise the creation below... Oh! the colours I can see from up high. Inexplicable! The seven sisters smiling down on me and winking at each other "She's figured it out again"! -"Let's help her hold on to it this time". So - charmed by the stars that look on, I will convert this gray husk of a life in to a brave aura of strong colours; every word I breathe out will be a stream of incredible light - My arrows! My arrows! Piercing the clouds like the sun!

A Letter (Circa 2005)

(On the envelope it reads:)

Attn: Shroud of Joy
at the door of imagination,
first galaxy on the hard right.

Ripped from the belly of a
curdled canvas and delivered
in friendship and love - not to
be confused as one of those secrets

.this is REAL.
.LIKE THE COFFEE SHOP.

always Sincerely, but not without
my smile,
Ladie Dee

(The letter reads:)

Tonight my glass is raised in anticipation of you accepting me in to your arms - space - dark eyes and skin we are both, burning. Holy heads, you and I. Solely lovers, not destroyers. Naturalists, Spiritualised in a vapour of sensory awakening... and to think of it all my stomach swirls - and somewhere deeper in - so deep I don't even know it so well - I have a warmth.

OH KINDLER, YOU ARE MY CURRENT MAGIC - BARE CONSCIENCE, LEAVING ME IN AWE.

I would hope my heart never leaves yours entirely and that for the short times our minds and souls and black irises fused, we were common to each other as the very skin we were born in to.

This is how I feel:♮//♪♪♪♪𝄐!!★☒ I desire intimacy because I am confusingly and stupidly human: but intimacy is fleeting compared to an exacted and solitary expectation of each other:
TRUTH IS OUR KING;
LOVE HIS QUEEN;
OUR BISHOPS ARE LOYALTY;
OUR KNIGHTS ARE
F R E E D O M;
and we build CASTLES of relationship as a beacon to the ships of endless horizon.

(A Code:)
Each comma means "focus on your breathing", each period (.) means clap twice. each semi-colon means you are so cool and I will miss you heaps and each dash is a burial of my days as an eater of fish - - - xo

ho retsabala dloc
ho arua gniwolg dlog
ho won m'I ffo eht kcart
ho won I edaf ot kcalb

ODDLY A MOPE POEM

little tiny coffee cups and saucers with candles in them smelling like chocolate. you are a tennis ball under my mattress. keeping me awake with the swirling black polaroids that have filled my dusty hovel. i wrap you up in an old, stained tea towel and put you in a banana box.

i threw many alphabets away. all code and indistinguishable babble. i sprayed all the shelves with orange juice and licked up the dirty discharge of memory. smells like dirt and fake stuff.

sitting here, a funnel in one ear, a cup to the other. filtering dissonance through my brains to make a cool shake for breakfast. something to sit with in the morning and contemplate over a pile of numbers and notes. some sweet thing grimacing and moaning 'frown on me... property's all gone...'

and a trick. i bought a queen of hearts and wound up losing every game. it was only worth a two dollar note, but i held it in my hand and wished it would burn away the polyester fraying at the edges of my weary afternoon.

sniff. sneeze. yawn. tap tap tap. i wonder how many moons til i'm back again. this gain scratches my back and sets my traps straight in place again. no sorrow. just syrup of the past to pour on my toast and honey from some lavender bees to tip in my tea.

GHOST and ANCHOR

Me, here I am... still as rose after rain. Pretty and still. A deep sense of peace so pervading. A stillness that aches. I remember you on days like this. Only in autumn, when the air seems to smile at the humans running around looking for caffeine, trawling the sleepy strip mall, looking at the junk stalls, reading the paper and perpetually waiting for public transport to whisk them away to somewhere romantic; the next suburb over or even as far as past what may constitute the actual city limits. Somewhere exotic, with an exotic name - Rosebud, Rosanna, Reservoir.... somewhere in one of those estates seemingly dreamed up by a marketing company, with a fake lake that smells like duck shit and two day old grass clippings. Children and young teeners ride their bikes on a daily basis, as if by roster, circling the parks with playgrounds that look like they were drawn on the day with a hi-lighter. Ice-cream trucks that ring out with a sickly round of Greensleeves, dopplered to the extreme, calling the kids to mini-mountains of white pleasure, rainbow sprinkles and crumbly chocolate that you get everywhere but in your mouth. Skies perfect - perfected - by exquisitely ginned clouds. I always see rabbits. You always saw ducks. That's how it was from the time we first knew each other. Watching from our backs on the reserve grass lawns with no soul to say it was better to spend our time in more productive ways. What could be more productive than developing an imagination? These days always remind me of you.

So I find myself, once more, voice reaching out to ask you questions. On these still, quiet days when all I can think to do is watch clouds and drink whiskey from a paper bag, read poems out loud and examine the world inside of park lawns, I want to ask how you're doing.
NO.
I want to move beyond congenial speak, politeness, and straight to the part where a swear has five different meanings and to be a friend means to know exactly what that one bastard or fuck means. I want smooth talking where trains of thought are disregarded and sentences meld together. I want the boldness of childhood - unashamed compliments and truths that still belie your feelings. Everything is a web, gossamer and movable, swaying in the wind.

I want to define for you what that feeling is that moves me, when the globe is still lit by the unseen sun - just dipped below the hills - when you are standing in the woods, in a field, by a stream, and all around is silhouettes. The very air around you breathes like a sleeping giant, filling its belly with the coolness of the magic minute after sundown. To define that for you, my ghost, would be to slowly perfect my thoughts, to sit here sifting through piles of many coloured threads, trying to find the one that matches the one I hold in my hand. A treacherous pass time holding the promise of madness. I do it because of the brief second of joy that spreads like warm sun in winter through my old bones when i find the thread, and everything is even. I am happy once more. Relieved, fulfilled, satisfied by the completion of the act.