zero dollar day

eyes open and close through paper days. a body on a pillow. some nights pass quicker through static and silence in the sheets. others fill with colour.

dreams build doors that never actualise beyond the bardo. familiar faces take the stage to gloat ambitions for the demons to scratching claws and howls. a pantomime of what if, all of little consequence. at the time it all feels real from the cheap seats to the wings.

sometimes there's excitement like I haven't known in years. I chew on fantasies I'd never have the nerve to chase. watch them forge a path into the inbetween. hope is less dangerous behind closed eyes. I see you and you want to see me too. sometimes there's only joy and warmth without an urge to read the news. your closeness is enough to keep me where I am. content for a moment; cycling circles in my head.

the theatre empties for tomorrow. I spoil a zero dollar day on account of lack of sleep. 

418 in white on black

a clearing in the clouds fills the green between the paths. I sit on the wall and watch the faces pass, leaves in a stream from the library out into their own forevers. the branches dance above: gentle breeze, warmer in a sense of spring to come. a magpie sings across the pavement, a tag around his ankle. 418 in white on black. I don't know what it means or why his other friends fly free unnumbered.

somewhere on the the cusp of consciousness. I stream the days through empty screens and doomsday groceries. on my phone I read your name and hope to see you when I sleep. sometimes you say mine in response. sometimes I wish I could forget. wake to tasks and masks to keep the wheel spinning. a dollar and a dream taxed to fuel the war machine. the headlines hang in shame - another word for hell on earth in place of action. another word enough to aid our guilt and apathy for now.

my chain slips in motion off the cobblestone. I brake to fix my bike somewhere between the cemetery and bed. the mishap paints my fingers and I seek salvation from the telegraph pole. blossoms weep over the curb to make me think of home. a little too cold and too early this year. I'd send a picture if only I could ask myself to stop and take the time.

the fish swim through

sacrifice tomorrow’s face to chance. nothing worth your time. the ink might as well spill from the pen into the fire. I buy nothing with another day. time down the drain, the wine we didn’t finish. the fish swim through and it’s all air to them.

geyser

contemplating pulp or the news. another death in high definition, turtles bleeding from their eyes. mine are tired from lack of dreams and we can only watch so much. the cat keeps me captive, in bed, from reaching my potential, etc. something else to blame today. I wring myself dry of thought until I'm drifting to the moon on the ghosts of passing cars. wait in supermarket traffic and the chemist for a friend. always safer between places I should be. the chain comes off but I'm a geyser and get back on the road again.

failure and the dark

grow up and listen to the notes you paid to take. book a time to see the doctor. maybe there's more that could explain why I feel the way I do? her eyes are kinder than yours and this is nothing new: she's seen this film before and has her ways to change the end. 

change like the ice on the window overnight. sometimes there are easy fixes. sometimes things are harder. medical monitoring to catch the changes if and when they come. what will make me take the steps to stand and board the train again? am I driven by reward or fear of failure and the dark?

every day a phone call down the emergency escape. never quite hearing you over the steps of my descent. never more than late or out of touch. I still need to book my flights.

mirrors etc.

we make mirrors when the reflection in the pond isn’t clear enough. there was a time before we drew the face. now the feed is full. I know how I look and it matters. were we ever really meant to see so much of ourselves? at least we’re drowning less (for now).

a burning tree

somewhere between sleep and sense: a sun sets on the coals of a birthday I can’t face. from the kitchen sink I watch old ghosts laugh and dance around a burning tree in the garden. I could leave the house and join them but it’s getting dark and I need an early night for school tomorrow. someone runs through the flames for fun. I wave behind the window.

in the morning on the bus I listen to boys I don’t know share excitement for retirement on the way to work. ‘the cushion is going to feel so good when I get there…’ someone’s baby screams like I might have years ago. the boys in suits keep talking til the tunnel spits us out.

I think about water

a couple hundred patrons haunt the city's oldest screen: directorial debut of the vampire ingenue. she's written about childhood and the strings it pulls on how we try to grow. the film is a dagger to the senses: sharp sounds and shadows, glances from scary men to run from. fragments of memories, glimpses of beautiful bodies. blood in the shower and streams to which we always return. I think about water and how it runs in ways the harm and hurt we carry can't. shouting and tears over ashes poured into the sea. I sip the drink I didn't need and listen to the breathing in the dark. is it wrong to join the laughing when we want to fill the silence? how often am I watching someone else's trauma just for something else to do?

the second baby screams with questions I'll never leave alone. all born screaming; why were we ever woken up? the babies cry for answers: we feed pacifiers and hope that soon they'll leave the beast alone. at some point they forget or learn to look around the cloud that can't make sense or be escaped. we do our best to give them less to think about.

I wake to fill another day without screams or a path beyond the tramlines. an aching frame and want to believe in the illusion of chronology. rain on the glass and someone's wedding day. I am nothing more than here and now forever all at once.

does poetry belong?

does poetry belong

when I wake up to the rain?

there are blankets and walls

to keep me still

and warm

(or where I am)

when I fold myself like laundry

or paint another face

to only sell my soul for silence

and a bed before the end

does poetry belong

when I lose you

even in dreaming

because I turned too soon

or you were never more than my reflection

in your eyes?

does poetry belong

when my groceries and breathing fuel the child-ending machine?

the bath runs blood

and I can watch the masses burn all night

and only ever think of you

does poetry belong

if I stop running to or from

and human conscience dies in Vogue

but the livestream isn't on?

exercise

objective: increase energy over time

invest in building social connections. how can we keep this going? consider sustainability. listen to yourself/the body to recharge the battery. you are making conscious choices for the long-term.

sleep. read (a book instead of headlines). less screen before bed. exercise discipline and put the phone away. the choice is for you in the morning. give yourself time (rather than taking).

find the fuel and movement balance. what gives and what takes energy? how much does it really matter?

reduce stress. find new windows for the breeze.

manage tension between productivity and boundaries. reconfigure expectations. close your eyes and start again.

getting cold

when I wake I feel further from him than ever. but the dream continues.

I sit third or fourth pew from the altar with my brother. the priest is a talkshow host and quick with jokes to draw us in and out of scripture with one-liners. I ascend to the lectern and read a passage for the faithful: some prophet's vision of the future when the earth decides to open and the cities all fall in. my brother leads the prayers of intercession between tears that won't stop smudging ink down the pages. I know it's because of the kids and death of human conscience, and take the stairs to hold his hand. groans from the congregation as children lead reluctant parents to leave. we sulk back to our pew and let the priest play his parade to rivers of blood at the door.

the clouds draws me a fool for fun. man of the year riding Sydney road in the rain. clothes on the window to dry into night. all out of questions and smoke to conceal. heavy for a moment long enough. the kettle's getting cold.

some kind of power

waiting in the wings at your whim. I tell myself I'd like to see you in my dreams. it's true and I do until I wake up.

cold toes and fingers for thoughts to pass through to the keys. some kind of power lingers.

pulse drawn every dawn to fight the disconnect into the next. there's always tomorrow forever. but maybe I'll find the rhythm with my feet someday soon. for now we ache into the rumbling traffic through the day. I think about bombs and greater evils to dwarf guilt felt for my own. wash away the blame for every breath that shapes the day. how much more would a mirror do?

like it matters

I wake to another day of disconnect between the body and the mind. both should be mine and under control, though the imbalance dictates every morning. the day is no more than an effort to tie the two back together. between the commute and conversation through screens and vibration I read the blueprints, left no choice but to surrender to the recipe of pleasantries and movement.

in bed on the pillow my dreams spend the effort on painting days I'll never see. some I'd love to spend with you. without fail the effort counts for nought; waking to the same frame of limbs and absent thoughts that doesn't move or want to. I sigh into tomorrow and the headlines only write themselves more dire. dreaming less of the apocalypse in light of just how fast we're caving in.

a hemisphere of suits gasps as the curtain falls before the plan they've known since the beginning. Gaza will be fully occupied. watch the men play dumb and clamber into clusters to denounce the sudden transparency from the machine they built themselves. the people rally in the streets; I spend my time on something else.

we're in an ice age. I keep thinking about the fact I stole from a friend. we are in an ice age, and mean something less than nothing to the rock we live on. our silly little project will pass millions of years before the sun decides to die. a thorn in my thoughts between tasks and expectations. I drift and try to picture what the place will look like when we're gone. how long will trains keep running? is life below enough to puncture through the asphalt, all the pavement? what happens to the things we built? what of everything that mattered? will the Louvre outlive the supermarket? nowhere to take questions but the fridge. I leave them with the monster. he's eager for new friends and always waits for more to come.

crawl back into the shell intact and only wake to leave again. let's talk more about our feelings. I'll listen like it matters like the graveyards on my phone.

maybe you visit when I'm asked about what happened or maybe I just miss you

you visited me again last night. it's nice to spend time, though I wish you'd give me warning. we were hiding from the group of whoever we were with in the corridor. never somewhere still - you always catch me in the liminal. but you wanted me like we had wanted each other on the way home at the start. we swayed into a slow dance and you kissed me. it felt like the first time, as though this was always where we were going, as though you always knew. and we are home for each other for a moment. you hold on as though I'm something you can't lose. all I need is to be held until we hear them crash the bus.

space for more

taking life too seriously. every day ticks on and moves into the next like clockwork. no roses around to stop and smell. I watch the man laugh at his journal on the tram. scribbles pouring over lines: handwriting or hieroglyphs? the key to joy is left behind in someone else’s language.

I hug my brother through his jacket and loathe every day that comes between us. we learn lines for different people and try our best to make more time. he sends me what he writes from dreams he doesn’t want. I would live through his eyes if I could. if only we were closer.

I read from a real book for the first time in weeks. power and human sacrifice for the sake of the stock market. you can watch it play out on my phone. new footage from the planes passing over the mess we’ve made: dystopic destruction we’ve bought with our silence and streaming subscriptions. what’s next for the humans? what more can we take? will we see the end of days or will the times move on without us? the weather woman says we’re in an ice age. humanity stays for a blip; still billions of years for the sun. a world without taxes and worship. we’ll leave so much space for more.

odds and even dreams

we've seen this film before and stay to watch the search continue. you keep your eyes wide open in the face of odds and even dreams that scare you back to bed. do you write about them too?

poetry is at our feet. paths are always more than asphalt and the leaves wept from the wind. poetry is on the screen; behind layers of paint on the walls of some other building somewhere else. the right words are always there in hiding, waiting patient for your voice. tell me when you find them (if you want).

paint the wall

sunday. for my first twenty years I spent every seventh morning praying with my parents at an altar. we'd sing songs and hold hands, making silent apologies to a judge we couldn't see. mum would give me coins to light candles for the people we worried about most. I'd list my wishes and send them wrapped in thanks and pleas for forgiveness to the clouds. since leaving home my days look different, and every seventh morning is a little much. though I still slide into the shroud of nighttime prayers, I can't quite shake the guilt for leaving empty pews and expectation on the phone. the house of prayer watches over tram tracks: I disappoint and race to someplace else to spend my time.

my costar makes me laugh without opening her mouth. she asks me what I think about the dying marriage between the characters we're creating. I think he wants her back. we both agree he's far too proud to apologise or ask. she's better off without him, though she might miss what they thought it was. you can paint the wall white again and again: it won't change what's underneath.

a holocaust continues. some hundred thousand say enough and cross the bridge through a city I gave up on. will this change what happens next? feeling far from where I am and want to be. I fix the chain back on my bike and wipe the grease onto a tree. 

I wear my gloves to school

passing a rally on the tram between battles and a book I won't finish: kaffirs with pots and pans scream for justice by the library. I hadn't known I'd missed it til the chants came through the windows. all too late and tied to discount dinner plans. with a schedule of new places to be I'll be missing almost every chance to join the demonstrations. no choice but to do my best on my own and watch the bombs drop on my phone.

I breathe clouds into new neighbourhoods. ride my bike down tram lines, sing for passing cars. reading street signs for directions to something more than just the places I can be. I chew on stories sold by billboards by the path. the incinerator gallery hosts a playground project for kids on the way to the park. metaphors and nothing more than names this far from all the blood.

we fill the abandoned room with pillows and potential. the mystic says it means something, a strange time in her life, etc. the cat yawns and pouts for quiet. just happy to have somewhere else to sleep.

nights are cold without you or the cat; hands and lips can only do so much in dreams. we miss the bus and hide in the bathroom. you wear my clothes and they fit much better round your limbs. your laugh is poison to tomorrow in your absence. mornings are ice and I wear my gloves to school. have you swam since Tallow Beach?