The only audience you have
to impress is yourself. only
the only audience you have
is yourself. only, yourself is

the audience you havent seen
since the true self disappeared
in smoke, and fire, and limb. like god.
forsaken, crawled up the hill-path

giant in itself but shaming
others through their inadequate gaze,
The old past-time of public shame
which gods performed to each other

and now humans performed to god
who performed supposedly for
or against itself. “only god
only knows what is happening

to us.” said one roman soldier
and the other twirled his skirt up
and around the index finger.
before responding. “have you read

and reread Ovid, Catullus?”
then “no” then… “then I don’t know what
you’re worried for.” then they stand there
like the great sun god apollo


In the repurposed church, music
recessed into the walls, and dark
times ahead. Seems to be the thing
which repeats on me like music

But day after day I have fun
I say to myself have fun, I
say over and over again
that emphasis is in the wrong

place, like the climbing site I saw
straight through. with my pen and paint set
in stone, I recorded in paint
the view from the chevin over

coming the attitude required
reading. and the trees became marks
vectors in an ancient game of
tropes and niches and clades and more

quietly as the paint’s surface tension
belongs in the world of calmness.
How should I say this? Unsettled
times when I am meditating

through use of representation.
Cheers! neuronal activity
Is both the cure and the problem
child in the way that clouds descend

Crow Absolved

The feather pile in the bin moans
I say, it’s okay, you Crow.
It’s okay. Sleep now.
A last few syllable caws come –
“I’m saw-ree” and I am exhausted by
The real difficulty of innocence
almost impossible
but just

With a faint clinking
the bird bones roll in the wind
taking up shapes
and finally gusting off as sand
dissolving into heaven
or whatever there is

God is there with me in a wheelchair
and Dove,
and we all three cry
for the darkness
and the beauty
and the coldness that has come.

Dove has the last word.
She writes in the sand with her branch


You wouldn’t perhaps have thought it,
but when the world ran out of fuel
there was a beautiful moment –
when, like bluebells emerging
from behind a rotten log
in the sunlight, skateboards, bikes
scooters, wheelchairs, wheels
of a different kind could be seen
enjoying a bright discovery
feeling the wind in their shirts, skirts
and the sweat, cold on the back;
Where the snap of wheels on tarmac
was like applause for a spent era.
They sped down natural speedways
and the flatland, their adopted birth
right, was finally theirs, they ran
from here to there never touching
the floor, and to the footbound were
the world they never quite could see –
something flashing in the daylight
amongst a quiet field. They bled speed
until electric hums seeded and the world
wasn’t quite as theirs as before;
Still they travelled, and never forgot
the days that had been their sport
hurtling along in the faint breeze
feeling the beach beneath their street
shedding a tear at quiet music.

All the Sky’s a Stage and all the Clouds are Merely Players.

You walk down the unnoticeable incline into
the city. You look to the skies where the weather
systems rehearse a performance they will give you
next time. You see the bowl of the heavens reflect
the skull’s roundness – and all car sounds in its
persistence. You love this. It is, you think, the mark
of a walk’s greatness to array contingency
in its random archways you sigh. And walk on through
the headache as the white grey blues yellow