Tuesday, April 12, 2011



That is what employers want -
to have you jump and say, 'how high'?

I have become a sponge
because there is no employment.

'Post It' lists of jobs applied for
flutter from my desktop.

I sit in my bowl and water, water -
liquid anemone,

small hands reached out
for sustenance.


The streets are roller coaster rides.
It would seem like fun, but is not.

We are sleeping in dust,
eating in dust, breathing in dust.

Rain brings it down on our heads,
washes it through our hair.

It rises from piles and settles on splinters,
and hills of rubble that rise like burial mounds

on ruined lots between silent streets,
where only the tinkle and graunch of masonry

sounds as it settles beneath the boots
of searchers and demolition workers.

Soldiers and armoured cars
block the way - every way -

and lock the city,
like sleeping beauty's castle -

clocks stopped, buildings
fallen to pieces.


My whole life I've waited
for the sky to topple upon me.

Turns out, I should've been looking
for the ground to fall out from under me.


Even yet,
the bay curves like a clam shell

while the sun spins - golden pearl
on the liquid lip of horizon.

Mist accumulated overnight begins to disappear
the same way it does every day,

like silk scarves in a magician's show.
The city rises out of it

full of possibilities.