to Eden

because I cannot change like wind I lose another day in transit. leaving one bed for another to sleep alone again. most days trickle on like water / feel as though I live more in corridors than rooms. I pour time into keys into cells made of codes on liquid crystals I don't understand. passing by the sun at dusk makes shadows of the hills / over rich green fields rendered in periphery. the seat in front takes photographs of sheep. I should close the lid and watch some world pass through the window.

in the data from another world somebody praises God. when asked about their ideal state they bow their head to Eden. where others dream of change this one rejoices in the promise they believe in. there's a challenge to look at what we have / to cherish the given that's taken for granted. what more could we want than a whole life? who needs the moon? they say we should be grateful for fertile time crops. I'm more grateful for ambiguity. still, I agree to thank the sky today for the abundance of being and tomorrow. we can only pray for peaceful co-existence with the rest.

people at the mall

I overhear a breakup whilst I’m typing study in the food court. she asks questions. when he doesn’t respond she starts to cry and speak quicker. a pigeon stirs to scraping chairs and flies into the ceiling. Mum falls asleep on her hands on the table. faux marble and laminated timber. man in green plaid shirt giggles like the joker into his phone across the hall. his laugh would give me nightmares. I wonder if my mum can hear him in her dreams.

ocean of dreams

how much living am I doing between my screens and dreams? last night I lost you in the ocean. I hope you made it home okay.

my inner feral

when we can't start the car we leave the house to meet the neighbours. the retired psychiatrist lives in an old convict hospital next door. in the kitchen we break bread between the shrink and a forest nymph, drinking his wine and listening to her stories. you hold my hand under the table. together we do well to keep them entertained into the afternoon. I could listen to you laugh forever.

the forest nymph asks about my inner feral. her own led her from straight lines in the academy to a lagoon at the end of the world. am I listening to mine?

elektra

trawling the panopticon they made for art / for fun / you didn't like until you did

you count the floors we climb past ghosts and strangers

I count the sleeps before you go

people pose in shades by headless angels

partners take their portraits

you feel in ways I can't explain from one container to the next

I list the things that make the chamber

wishing I could write your thoughts as clearly with my fingers.

Kiefer's prison: concrete, shipping containers, barbed wire, rolls of film on zinc, plaster, hay, reinforcing bars, timber, tin, glass floor, cables hanging lightbulbs, assorted sticks, old palms, dried sunflowers, water (stagnant), shards of glass, memory (perhaps).

penguins and robots

we ride bikes to keep afloat and circumnavigate the island. our peddling keeps us up above the water. and so we race the sun into the bay before it sets. you're laughing and I can't keep up. at dusk we pass the man at the end of the pebble beach with his hand open to heaven. a drone descends into his palm. our search for penguins only leads to robots.

after dinner you'll tell me to leave the dishes. on the floor by the fire you'll hold my hand and sing. maybe I'll scratch your back. either way I know you'll wrap my limbs up tight in yours.

just another corner

we walk around the corner where something happened once. only we remember what and why it matters. I remind myself that every corner matters to someone, that this is just another corner to anyone else. it's a funny thought passing over the spot we stopped and started tying knots into each other. I passed you and turned back three times before coming back. you waited where you were with the flashing green man. we pass him now a little less clear / free / impish than before, however many months since falling into orbit, dragging heads and hearts of however much uncertainty of what it means and why.

I think about the corner being just another corner. before something happened I'd cross that pavement every day without a thought. how many Babels did I pass today? how much can truly matter without being there to care?