spoken word

The audio renderings of selected poems in mp3 format (a pocket voice recorder makes for low production value):

Another Boxing Day (1016kb)

For Unknown (1mb)

Meanwhile Juxtaposition Adorns Dreams (710kb)

The Postcards I Never Sent (1mb)

For Those Who Just Never Got It (2mb)

For those who just never got it

This will 

pick at the knots

of your years

where stanzas and

rhyme schemas

were the ababa

of babies babble

and old men forgotten.

This will dissolve

the cement

of metaphors

such as like

beyond your mindscape

and things you give a damn about.

I want this to tell

you that

a poem

is a smell.

It is your nostrils

flaring

at the fennel of

tea after the storm

in the mug.

It is you drawing

steel from the safe musk

of your fathers embrace.

It is hospital disinfectant

and the camphor

of bereavement.

It is the stinging talc

of gunpowder 

and earth of the rocks thrown

by children who should not

be looking so intently towards death.

This is

a poem.

I want this to tell

you that

a poem

is a taste.

It is strawberry softserve

more on your fingers than tongue.

It is the cardamom of sweetmeats and family

bursting through the roof of the house.

It is the spice of home.

It is the spearmint of that first kiss.

This is

a poem.

I want this to tell

you that

a poem

is a touch.

It is the cotton of his shirt

before he slipped away from you.

It is the bubblewrap of distraction.

It is sandpaper smooth against wood and bruised on your skin.

It is your mothers arm against yours

when all was strange.

This is

a poem.

I want this to tell

you that

a poem

is a sound.

It is the comfort of mantras.

It is the pull of prescribed prayer.

It is the ribbing of gutstrings.

It is the first heartbeat of that which grows inside you.

This is

a poem.

I want this to tell

you that

a poem

is a picture.

Can you see it now?

"Them that takes cakes..."

Sometimes
I kick
geriatrics
in the shins
in the dark
of half-price cinema.

Sometimes
I weave
new birds of paradise
into your pristine
chobi
from gum
my feet bring in off
of the street.

Sometimes
I split
infinitives
and dangle
participles and modifiers
from the
hanging mobile of
my prose.

Sometimes
I forget
the salt
the sugar
remembering instead
the exuberance of
turmeric.

Sometimes
I
just
make
mistakes.