There are no oceans on the moon—
that’s why I want to swim in them.
Listening to a dead man’s voice,
willing to believe his lies.
We are never where we think we are.
I am eight years old…
sand in my teeth…
I hear laughing.
He is in love with someone’s eye.
She is in love with a prosthetic history .
He is in love with places he hasn’t visited.
She is love with feelings she hasn’t experienced.
They are in love with someone else’s loves.
I am in love with your sensibilities.
You are in love with a curator.
We are in love with something to be deleted.
I might go blind
if I look at you too long.
It’s like I’m holding audience
with the most holy thing
my godless brain can invent:
you emit this religious kind of light
that touches me in the same way
the sun touches plants.
If Jesus himself busted in on this poem,
in an explosion of sunbeams,
rainbows, and neon angels,
I’d probably just glance over
at that whole dull scene,
put on some dark sunglasses,
apply some SPF 50,
and then turn straight back to you.
The light abandons us
to another night.
Tree tips become membranes:
Sky and Earth share skin.
Ink mists gather:
blue blood bleeding
into black horizons.
We fold senseless
into it all:
a boundless origami
of forest and river,
their creatures and their filth.
Hills and mountains rise:
from lava oceans beneath.
Up turns down,
and inside, out.
the void reclaims us.
Do what you can now:
The light will not return.
Aotearoa, Auckland, cemetery, Death, family, Grafton Gully, growing up, home, imagination, Karangahape road, life, memories, New Zealand, perspective, place, poem, poetry, Symonds Street, Tamaki Makaurau
From the edge of Symonds St. bridge
we wave, “Hi!” as the thunderous dome
of a Sauropod bobs by on its lumber through
the megaflora broccoli of Grafton Gully
(to pick up some lemon drops and a can
of Fresh-up from a long-extinct corner dairy).
Approaching Pigeon Park
we breathe shallow, as we pass the cemetery
on the K-road corner, to make it more difficult
for the evil dead to suck out our souls
—down the steps we see their shadows,
and the oaks on this side reach for us.
Down the Rose Trail steps
we play dress up, as we gulp teen spirits,
and suck the breath out from other guys’ girlfriends
—half-clothed in the shadows of oak branches,
and the intentional grime of worn stovepipes—
we are the zombies we saw from the street.
On the other side of the bridge
we hear of Nanna’s passing, as we install a work
at St. Paul’s gallery by the Wellesley corner.
Down in the gully Mum pours Dulcie’s ashes out
on an ancestor’s grave, and asks us to do the same for her
—from this position I can see the whole place…
A 25-year walk through home.
in this square oasis family talk a tongue I have never learned the thermostat is set at the temperature of …
I wake next to you in a white bed, stretching out sunlight streams through cracks in the blinds onto white …
They found me in a pickle jar, sweeter than I’d ever been— the sweetest shade of pickle green. My wife …
you don’t know what those hands are capable of those hands have caressed and slapped lovers on lazy afternoons those …
when did this embrace become a wrestling match? was the child torn screaming from its mother? or the mother from …
dehydrate my cells with acetone burn it away bath me in polymer preserve this monstrosity every pore and lash dress …