The Tall Teller

Forgive the autumn traveler

as he catches glimpses

Recalls himself in a song

or a beam of warm sun

and sometimes after

the first seven or eight sips

thinks yes

This is it again

He remembers the fruitiness

of vintage summers

honeyed air

that he’s not sure

really happened

or the salty kisses

of ocean flings

that didn’t for sure

It doesn’t matter

Memories are as

real as lies

So forgive this autumn traveler

as I sit and stir wine

for stories

and fish love through

rays of light

It's Wired

I love my owl:

a substandard

piece of African art

from a blanket

on a Jozi pavement,

where it was by far
the cheapest

and least ambitious offering.

My owl, I sense

would stumble and fall

with its next step.

Don’t think it's sober;

it’s never truly been new.

I love my owl.

The Cleaners

We clean in lieu

of conversation,

we sweep passed each other-

spectres in an untouching waltz

on finely cracked thin ice.

weightless

loveless

apart

Our flat, like lustrous crystal

in a museum of such things-

polished brilliant but unused,

to be looked at, not touched;
a home of ghosts and echoes.

dustless

lustless

empty  

Finding Out There Were Mountains

the mountains here are wild;

you'd never know if you didn't get out of the city

which can consume you as it almost did me.

for the first six months of my living here,

I truly believed the entire island to be a metropolis.

I knew my way around town, Taoyuan,

having purposely lost myself a few times

on my motorbike- my Sanyang one-fifty.

I would ride around; I quite enjoyed being lost,

until I'd see something I recognized

and doing it this way the city soon took shape,

like a forming jigsaw puzzle.

it was on one of these adventures

when as lost as I'd ever been,

I reached an interesting cusp,

where the relentless city gave up as

up until then I had never dreamt it would.

In its place cut a deep valley;

the road I was on, the number seven,
wound down into it.

I could make out a river in a huge floodplain,

making tributaries of itself and reforming

like a silver child with too much space to play in.

but it was the mountains on the other side of the valley

that ensnared my gaze and attention- steep and jungled,

and clearly the number seven cut into them.

I took a chance on the petrol I had left in my tank;

the gauge was broken and always showed full,

and made for them, popping out of the urban fizz

like a cork.

The Zen of Jim Morrison

I was counselled last night
by an energetic Jim Morrison
who refused to sit down
He listened intently to
the things that I had on my mind
and after seeming to think over each one
he'd hold up his arms like a champion
and shout, “Fuck it!”

Now to me in my dreams
this energetic Jim Morrison
pacing about- a panther in leather
seemed to have it all worked out
Each 'Fuck it' gave artful wings to a problem
and out of the tenth floor window it would flutter
Until finally I had none- I was reborn
Jim staggered and sat down like a preacher who'd just given up the spirit
one leg over the arm of the couch

I stood up to leave the room
but looking back I realised he was dying
His colour had left him and his breathing was laboured
“Jim Morrison, what can I do?” I asked
more aware of his celebrity and a little nervous
His head stooped and I had to push him back
to prevent him falling off the couch.
“Jesus Christ! Have I taught you nothing man?”
he slurred with a dying man's grin
“You know what to do.”

I did know what to do, sort of
“Fuck it?” I ventured tentatively
keeping one hand on his heavy shoulder
“Come on man!” he laughed and then coughed terribly
I took my hand off his shoulder and let James D Morrison of The Doors
fall unceremoniously onto the one side of his face; I'd never seen anyone look so dead
I raised my arms, clenched my fists and screamed, “Fuck it!”
This gave him wings, not the biggest or prettiest but they would do hopefully
I'd need more practice he muttered as he unfurled and stood up
“Fuck it friend,” he said with goodbye in his blue-grey eyes

Then he stage-dived out of the open window  

A Lonely Tendency

My telephone directory,

a paper brick of names;

the portal to almost anyone,

under the beige plastic phone

in the unlit passage.

I stand beside it,

a spec next to an ever-faster turning planet;

the chance to climb on long past,

receiver in my older hand

like a revolver with one bullet,

racking to remember

a name I knew once

from a face I can still almost see,

before clicking it back down;

a now daily resignation...