writing as a side effect of walking 
-
in an effort to quiet the incessance of the mind 
tie a shirt around your waist 
walk with misplaced purpose and vigor 
until the boozy late night sun sweeps you up in giddiness.
until you forget which foot is which 
and which comes after the other.
until a strut turns to a whirling of hops and skips
of stops and stares, of grins and blinks.
while your ear is to a tree, rainforest takes root 
and it’s as if around any corner will be some ghostly entity 
waiting with unwarranted riddles of morality.
but all that waits is solitude 
and after that, deeper solitude.
and at some point
after losing yourself to the rhythm of the hills
to the patterns of birdsong and to the lquidation of sunlight.
after losing your footing and your place in the world 
it seems arbitrary to play with words in the mind.
like a child casting a spindley net around the most monstrous, 
glorious, tesselating abstractions.
and still, somehow, you return to the point at which you began
a string of words in tow.


pearl beach part one
-
this is where i am for eternity 
letting my blueness weld itself to the sky 
letting the sea be the shirt on my back 
there is cleanliness here 
a sparkle of purity that reaches from the sun 
tickling ripples of the tide 
and entrusting a glistening jumble of heads 
into my care.
god appears on the surface 
allowing the wind to whip droplets in her name 
she sings through the leaves 
watching as i and another share the same epiphanies
head scratching, tear jerking, laughter inducing
each living in fear of madness 
and in search of deep knowing 
but always seeing her in the way colours shift
in the way the tide comes in 
when we look across the sand to eachother 
and only see her in the shapes that gaze back.

i could sit here
-
i could sit here 
i could lean into my decomposition
i could grow roots here
sprout leaves, bare fruit.
i could become engulfed by the rainbows that leap from petals
i could become the bite of ants 
sit here until my last inch of flesh was the pulse of a bug 
sit until my hair is turned to dust 
until my bones lie sun-bleached and brittle 
until the hum of my exhale is the hum of a honey-drunk bee
until the fruit of my fertile flesh is in the stomach of a mother 
is in the nectar of her rich and sacred breast
is in the mouth of a cherished and buzzing infant 
who looks upon his own seat with my same contented bliss 
i could sit until my death 
and live a million lives 

the movements of stillness
-
in a moment of stillness
in a moment of silence so silent 
it feels as though the earth 
will erupt all around you
in this moment you will sit 
it is where you will see 
that the earth already erupts with aliveness 
already it explodes with fiery polarity 
it crawls with light shows of unity 
it is abuzz with eruptions of aliveness 


faux discernment 
-
entities entwined
in a web of perspectives 
adamant and overlooked 
in pearly white objectives.
the sun still bleaches bones 
and watches buried bodies bloat 
despite those who think they can discern 
the chewer from that which is chewed 


the landlady 
-
she lets me walk upon her skin at dusk 
and when her eyes close completely
she lets me gaze upwards
into the esoteric flourishes of her unconscious mind 
she does not have ears for my praise
she does not sit silently 
in wait for signs of my bewilderment
for some recognition of significance
instead she roars
she whispers 
she gives and she receives 
she stirs and she is ever so still
she does all at once 
she does nothing at all 


capital kiss
-
elevated ignorance 
falling into dust 
she will put you in a trance 
only to gain trust.
she’ll give you visions of self improvement
through false donations and juicy bites
though through the curtains you may squint
she’ll cover your eyes and feed you your slice 


limbo 
-
your hand passes through me
and i await a shudder 
a sinking feeling’s looming
body and mind are torn asunder. 
i slowly float away 
and watch from above 
as new puppets start to play 
with the body of a dove.
every time you turn away 
eyelids sink to sockets 
jaws clench until the day 
i dive into my pockets.
i’ll grab fistfuls of flowers 
and drink from fresh springs 
i could sit for hours 
licking what the breeze brings.


sea of prisms
-
if shattering mirrors 
and scattering glass
would rocket me far into the past. 
there would be prismatic light 
littering the ocean 
and sky 
as the sun catches the kiss of glass slivers 

the train and the tree
-
elderly train spies a naked tree.
it floats in its vulnerability past vandalized windows. it gazes at sprinklings of passengers as they fumble with morality. 
time slips by, or they slip through it. 
some sleep, stirring only to grunt.
some crinkle papers their papers in the direction of bespectacled ladies staring into phone screens. 
one spies the naked tree. 
he turns his head, hypnotized by bare white limbs as the train trundles past. he clutches the window sill, his glasses fog. he watches until the naked tree disappears over the hill. 
and with a sigh he turns away. 

unfamiliar comfort 
-
whispered sickness in my ear
i wander far from daylight
only dampness finds me here
far beneath, and airtight.
there’s a strange wind shift
and my muscles start to squeeze 
leaf litter lifts 
and arched eyebrows ease.
with every new breath 
comes an open window
a touch to a breast 
a knead to a dough.
my fingers are creaking 
they open their eyes 
to see faucets leaking 
where eager dogs lie.