tactic: write very
small so you have
to lean closer.

There's a place I know where the birds swing low,
And wayward vines go roaming,
Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god
Is pale, in scented gloaming.
And at sunset there comes a lady fair
Whose eyes are deep with yearning.
By an old, old gate does the lady wait
Her own true love's returning.

But the days go by, and the lilacs die,
And trembling birds seek cover;
Yet the lady stands, with her long white hands
Held out to greet her lover.
And it's there she'll stay till the shadowy day
A monument they grave her.
She will always wait by the same old gate, --
The gate her true love gave her.

ek is moeg
en ek will alles
uitspoeg

al die omkraplikheid
al die stres
al die frustrasie

ek wil rus
op eilande
van verwonder

sade saai
met vrede

i am tired
and i want to spit
everything out

all the discomfort
all the stress
all the frustration

i want to rest
on islands
of wonder

sow seeds
with peace

I could tell you how the Square looks
sketched in moonlight;
I know the smell of mist fresh off the river,
and night air that parts like tired curtains,
with wet heat that sighs
and slaps the dock when you move on;
I’ve felt what a saxophone does
to the heart
over water,
and how a man’s voice sounds best after smoking,
but a woman’s is best after ***.

There are ghosts in these streets,
but they don’t hunger anymore;
hunger is for the living
not satisfied
with light.

Once more the ancient feast returns,
And the bright hearth domestic burns
  With Yuletide's added blaze;
So, too, may all your joys increase
Midst floods of mem'ry, love, and peace,
  And dreams of Halcyon days.

On the bring
       Of                                                                               Relented
             Collapse
They

       Broke



                      As The

       World

shadows shuffle with thin letters over heads--
people try to escape the downpour of
Nature’s sadness or self-renewal.
They splash their confusion and unawareness--
the anger of no preparation.

Perhaps it’s Reality’s stupidity,
but they run to safety, warmth, comfort--
the arms of Acceptance that bring contentment--
warm coffee and eskimo kisses;
fingers on clocks vanquish light and

defy some sense of logic we deem
scientifically relevant. Suddenly, life’s bruising is as fresh as wet
pavement--as fresh as your hands--eager and innocent—
racing to find every curve, hill,
valley of my willingness.

I am sore from phantom kisses-broken
from abandonment—a coward’s half-assed fight.
As rain cheats the sun, I have been cheated
with songs that are just songs--words as paradoxical
as rainfall and sunshine harmonized.

As it rains, I don’t move--but
I feel it run; through my hair--down
softness and skin--as familiar as your hands--dust trails
embedded in my closed eyes—people, you and I, aware.
Silently, Reality knows that time—fingers on clocks--vanquishes nothing but itself.