Fairy Penguins

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Helen Hagemann

at the corner of the coast we leave behind
a crossroad of island & mainland
walk the jetty with tea & sandwiches
settling on a narrow shore

a stray sentence begins & ends in the
margins of rock & sand,
grouped pine trees hug the foreland,
tufts of grass filter down on limestone

Penguin Island is Joie de Vivre,
bottled-nose dolphins, sea lions, the informed
reveal of penguins as seabirds who cannot fly,
who shy away like full stops from poems

children demand their attention, a noisy
thrumming persistence — we walk
facing the sun with office workers, musicians
the star attraction, pairs huddled into trellises of rock

rangers answer questions with torchlit marks
fish? mammal? the forces of people
in an open cage? such forces chatting on mobile phones
the hubbub of sinewy language in a factory thrum
— people — finding at last a pair nested in close
a narrow window compressed into rock – so alone!

the beginning is an end to their search
shadows tilt on tiny faces, the cave an arbitrary height
forces dark silhouettes further in — two creatures
inviting clear reasoning for tourists, to walk back along the shore
to a swell of waves on the western side, beach & tarp,
a swim & the mind’s industry churning thoughts of
we’ll catch a wave before lunch

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Poems from Mystes

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Matthieu Baumier
1.

à Eva-Maria Berg

Je suis né
dans un pays de neiges
et de cendres

Pays où l’on n’arrive
Jamais.

Et que jamais,
on ne quitte ni ne connaît
Pays d’où personne ne vient,
où
le soleil croît
en larmes de cendres,
débris de neiges noircies
et d’âmes englouties
dans l’étincelle
des silences enfuis

Je suis né – ici,
ainsi que naît la peur.


2.

À la limite extrême
des mondes abandonnés
se produit le son
d’étoiles amères
égarées sous la voûte
de nos corps enfermés

Alors
la lune s’enroule
aux lisières tranchées
de veines de granit

où luit la parole
des épaves glaciaires
échouées sur la grève
de nos vies


3.

Silencieux
un morceau d’étoile

me regarde
à travers les cailloux
de pluie

l’heure approche
de lui tendre la main


1.

for Eva-Maria Berg

I was born
in a country of snow
and ashes

A country where one
never arrives.

And one
never leaves, never knows,
A country where no one comes,
where
the sun distills
tears of ash
the debris of blackened snow
and souls swallowed up
in the sparks
of retreating silences

I was born—here,
just as fear is born.


2.

At the extreme limit
of abandonned worlds
the sound of bitter stars
is heard
wandering beneath the vault
of our cloistered bodies

Then
the moon enfolds
the borders carved
from veins of granite

where the word shines out
from glacial rubble
abandonned on the strand
of our lives


3.

In silence
the fragment of a star

eyes me
through the pebbles
of rain

the hour is coming
to hold out my hand to him


Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged ,

Cinquecento

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Stuart Barnes

The house received all ornaments to grace it,
The walls were of discolour’d jasper-stone,
One window shut, the other open stood,

The time is come, I must depart
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
Ring out your bells, let mourning shows be spread;

Close the Truncke, embalme the Chest,
You should not trust lieutenants in your room,
Or hawk of the tower:

Sir Charles into my chamber coming in,
Fillet of a fenny snake,
His chilling cold doth heat require;

Oh, what a lantern, what a lamp of light
Avising the bright beams of these fair eyes
Where Muses (like bees) make their mansion.


†a cento; sources: ‘The Description of Cooke-ham’ by Æmilia Lanyer, ‘Hero and Leander’ and ‘Elegies,
Book One, 5’ by Christopher Marlowe, ‘A Communication Which the Author Had to London, Before She Made
Her Will’ by Isabella Whitney, ‘A Hymn to God the Father’ by John Donne, ‘Ring Out Your Bells’ by Sir
Philip Sidney, from The Countesse of Montgomery’s Urania: “Love peruse me, seeke, and finde”
by Lady Mary Wroth, ‘The Steel Glass’ by George Gascoigne, ‘To Mistress Margaret Hussey’ by John
Skelton, ‘An Epilogue to the Above’ by Duchess of Newcastle Margaret Cavendish, ‘Song of the Witches’
by William Shakespeare, ‘New Heaven, New War’ by Robert Southwell, SJ, ‘O’ by Mary Sidney Herbert,
‘Avising the Bright Beams’ by Sir Thomas Wyatt, ‘Sonnet 17’ by Richard Barnfield

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Hansel’s Way

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Melinda Kallasmae

for Lisa J

1
‘Breast?’
Birthday boy, Hansel (milk-coloured, three),
lisped his request, hardly refused before then.
But it seemed the world was turning

on me – and my walking, talking suckling.
‘Will you breastfeed on his buck’s night?’
Jack’s mum pretended support, pretended
polite, as the play-group Gerties giggled.
Cows!

I burned, long after
the candles were spat on. Party over,
I poured myself into my bra
and Hansel forgot his attachment.

2
Look at him: lanky.
I can’t remember his last
laughing leap into my arms.
Had I known that moment
contained a final armful of boy
I’d have held on longer.

3
The not in my throat, thick and growing,
squeezes words from the knot in my neck.
I say, ‘How will you know your way back?’

Hansel flashes his fourteen-year-old smile
and laughs as he shows me a new bread roll.
He says, ‘Worry not, Mother! No need
to remember. I’m laying a trail.’

He sees the sky sunny; I see it grey
with seagulls and sparrows
whose insides are hollow.

The worry-knot in my chest finds its rhythm.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Dream Diary – Tuesday and Wednesday Night

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Anna Jacobson

Tuesday night I dream
I go to an all you can eat
restaurant. The waiter says to take
a seat and brings out large platters:
pastries, chicken and potatoes.

Extra food keeps appearing on the table:
schmaltz and fishcakes that my sidekick brings
out from her many bags. The waiter rushes
past, sets down an ice cream sculpture
in the shape of Macbeth’s head with a clatter.
‘After this you leave’ he says, noticing all
the extra food my companion is adding
to prolong our stay. We eat and eat.

At the counter the waiter writes the bill: $13 041.
My friend takes the bill and writes
a big 0 on it. The waiter says ‘this is NOT
on the house’ and she writes
the 0 again. The waiter shows us a form
to say we are banned from going
to that restaurant again. Wednesday night
I dream my psychiatrist instructs me
to wrap my feet in parsley.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

On the Windswept Bridge

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Jena Woodhouse

I walk across the bridge
for the pleasure of walking across the bridge,
daring the wind to pluck me up like a bird,
make me a cloud in its mouth,
transiting the boundless high
camino of unearthly blue,
morphing to a golden fetish
of the sun when day is through.

I cross the bridge
for the pleasure of striding
over ingots of gold light,
frisked by air’s invisible probes,
adrenalin channelling helium.

I do not resemble Hokusai’s women,
robed in ornate kimono folds,
clattering in high-runged clogs
with mincing gait to appear demure.
Above the diamond-python river
I quicken pace as the wind leans closer,
loosening hair, unfastening laces,
lifting my skirt, an impatient lover.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Dakota

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Julie Maclean

The first time I saw
the building
was from the hop-on hop-off bus
glimpsing Strawberry Fields
as we headed for 9/11
& the Soup Nazi
I looked for Yoko
with a shopping bag
and was disappointed

This time I walked through
Central Park dodging nannies
Designer Dogs
Yummies doing knee bends
leaning on prams

Randoms
were having photos taken
on a mosaic mandala
Shrine with the title
of his song inlaid

Early autumn
Winter nowhere on the horizon
it was impossible
to imagine a psycho with a gun
Wonked brain going
for a blood-splattered run
Letting it right off the leash

A John lookalike was playing
his twangy thang
A blackbird flew out of it

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

The Sun | Beneath the Cathedral

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Tamryn Bennett

The Sun






The Sun

we make ourselves
stories bright as fire
from teeth and stone and
feather

*
‘in all poetry a word is like a sun’ – ernest fenollosa
*

it starts with sound
a seed
a stone
cast into carbon
chance








Pages: 1 2
Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged ,

Procrastinate

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Claire Roberts

The swinging curvature
of a feather as it falls
through the air
(escaped from my pillow; I lie across the bed
tired as the afternoon)

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Poetics

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Stu Hatton

read the poem many times
wasn’t sure i liked it
a bit landscapey
like walking west at sunset
not deletionist enough
too bound in boundedness
probably best viewed at random
kind of poem that doesn’t return calls
but nevertheless keeps talking
with its heavy mouth
as if silence needs feeding
poem written but not coded
no anarchy postcard
trying to tune the light
rather than lick the room
or trying to lick the room
rather than tune the light
too many free hits
not enough chanting
or maybe i’m just reading out of my depth?
maybe i fail to see its wild seed
or things i don’t want to see
looking in at me
maybe this poem’s
the very beginning of beginning?
wait here
i’ve gone to get help

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Routine Transfer (Maternity Ward, 1983)

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Lea McInerney

The woman whose baby died at birth
sits in the wheelchair waiting for the lift, a drip
in her arm. A nurse stands beside, in charge

of drip stand and suitcase, her eyes
on the woman’s grey face. She pictures
the textbook womb, curled-up baby

scooped out, the woman hollowed. This
is no routine transfer, it should be
funereal, a silent procession to the ward.

Another nurse stands behind, ready to push
the chair into the lift. She talks
of tonight’s date, her new winter boots,

asks if it’s nearly lunchtime. The nurse beside,
her face hot with shame, watches the words
pelt like hailstones on the slumped body.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Foliage and Grace and a New

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Kay Are

foliage and grace and a new
cup and saucer, a laugh and a
lip and a laid climb sudden
and at the same time
patient and staring and
too late and later all this and not ordinary
noise and distance and even dust
spitting and perhaps washing
and polishing the lamp and the
cake and a sweet singing
trimming by length and
by doubling in the stem
and in starting it
shuts and it lifts the six
and the seven, a glass
and a cousin, the bug and the
post, nearer and farther
a meadow, a stroke
astonishing
and difficult in mercy and in
medicine, a lining
and the shape, the cut
and slender joint, concentrating
the illusion and the illustration and soap
and silk for cleaning, readiness
and eyesight scatter and scattering
are guided and guided
away old ladies and mild
colds, a sweetness and some of
that, a whole sight and a
little groan and sometime a collapse
and a sold hole, habitual and tyrannical and
clean and cleansing and sometime next best
nearest a pillar a cause and no curve and a hat
and hurt, and courage and a clock
and matches and a swan, three
and more and no more
than three, a red thing and a
white thing, noon and moon
leadish
and nearly set in

I made this poem first by tabulating a Gertrude Stein text, ‘Objects,’ from her Tender Buttons, in a
spreadsheet. The spreadsheet’s functions were then used to locate mutually overlapping verbal
rhythms and syntactic repetitions. I manually arranged the resulting fragments in order to accentuate
the further correspondences they shared – but found repetition generates its own differences.
This poem is extracted from a set of 24.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Postcard to a Sibling

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Carolyn Abbs

‘my love letter to the planet’, Sebastião Salgado,
Genesis, Natural History Museum, 2013.

i.
I perused the shimmering images of Salgado,
chiaroscuro palettes of black and white:
penguins cormorants whales sea lions,
volcanoes the Antarctic glaciers of Alaska…
afterwards, I chose a postcard of African elephants —
then back home in Australia
I leant it against the photo of my father
and the carved elephants he brought back from war.

ii.
I recalled the house of childhood the sounds,
back-drop of war — his portrait on the dresser,
khaki uniform how the light stroked his brow,
chink of teeth his smile,
the row of elephants alongside and, on Sundays:
silver cutlery on crisp white damask,
the meagre roast,
grown-ups’ stories of the black-out, ration books,
nurses and hospitals, underground shelters, the blitz,
the silences.

iii.
in winter, we scattered toast crumbs on snow,
then indoors, beneath a table, its folds of dark cloth,
we looked through the cold glass of French doors:
sparrows blackbirds specked the whiteness —
the room droned with the voice of BBC news.

iv.
today I will buy a stamp for the postcard,
write nothing but my name —
she will remember.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Pollard

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Pauline Ryan

Do they still pollard the trees in Tokyo?
Here in obfuscating avenues too much is left to grow.
My daughter visits: she cleans my teeth,
wraps me in mohair battening
my ankles to the wheelchair.
Her breath is warm in my ear
heaving as she pushes up the hill.
My head thrown back to the foliage-matted sky.
Impatient of their green hemmed frame,
I see the clouds hurry by.

Lunchtime walkers smile at her,
they know they mustn’t identify with my
aged skin and unleavened inscrutability.
The Chinese tourists are of a different category
Ni hao: yes they may have my photograph.
I pose to ensure I rest, some creased old man,
on slit-eyed mantels unhewn for posterity.

My daughter loiters with her eyes,
that beckon me to speak of nights hunkered
on canvas stretchers in the overhang of alang alang,
or of the trinket boxes I carved from coconut shell.
In Rabaul we were sick on grub cooked in ten-gallon drums,
in huts thick with dysentery, dengue and beer.
I can no longer hand out memories.
The crow demands and never says thank-you
but we are not in Tokyo—here there are only peewees
whose plinking interests me—so neatly sung in unison.

My son visits on Sundays and joins the dinner table.
In this place his wits are clear,
top man—he may give a speech.
I watch him amongst the dribbling and crumpled residents—
amongst dirty wheelchairs and orthopaedic cutlery.
His thoughts scattered in realms like wheat for chooks,
clods, shaken from sheaves of downy thistle.
Is it black there too? I want to ask.
I am glad the birds will start at five thirty—
and enthusiastically.

The pollarded trees in Paris are persuasive,
and more brutal than Tokyo, their limbs contorted
like prize fighters, sallying in rows.
They murmur in the wind and I have joined the whispering
it is lonely if you go but no different if you stay.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Rallying

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Quinn Eades

At twelve I was sure. This body
would belong, even briefly, to no other.
I had watched my mother
with my sister and I, the two
children that were meant to change
her life (we changed her life),
and it did not look enticing. The days
had an edge to them, and I remember
it not like a knife, but something
blunter, something that scraped,
and was rusted, and hurt
in a slow and dull way that rarely
showed. Sometimes I wished
for blood, as if that would make it easier.
Bruised. We were all bruised.

Her voice was this beautiful thing, low
and strong but with a break. She insisted
that she couldn’t sing, but she did. She sang
me into each day, and carried me through
the night. Language that tore but also
soothed, her voice, the tone of her, running
through my lymbic system, coating my amygdala,
teaching my cingulate cortex about pain.

But sometimes we’d put Buddy Holly
or X-Ray Specs on the record player,
the plastic arm hooking across, the needle
coming down to rest and crackle across
vinyl, and sing, and dance on the floorboards.
Six feet banging down, chalk dust
and crayon crumbs flying up, and over it all
her reaching voice, that cracked on the no more.

It was 1979, and we were blonde girl children
with a mother who was cracking, yelling
bondage up yours and jumping off
second hand couches like we could fly.
It was 1979, and my mother was writing
for Spare Rib and wearing overalls
and gymboots and smoking rollies
and taking us to rallies.

We swam naked in the Hyde Park fountains
after Land Rights marches. Cold brown water,
one cent pieces glinting on the concrete bottom,
too far down to reach. The feel
of a metal turtle back between my five year old
legs, cool and hard and round. Balancing
on a turtle shell and dangling my legs
and looking up at the fig tree canopy, so green,
with the sun on my back, and looking over
at my sister dog paddling to the edge, her hair
gone stringy, so blonde it was almost white.

Don’t think it was all bruises and cracking. There
were moments like these. There were always
moments like these: metal, and sun, and green,
and cold to the knees, and later water
and apples on the bus home,
and my mother smoking (because
you could then), and us rolling up our white and purple tickets
and pretending to do the same.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Using Protection

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Lesley Carnus

Titanium is designed to withstand
all kinds of weather – fire-storm, alpine chill,
space shuttle’s lonely encapsulation.

Double glazed windows mute the shouts
of revellers disgorged from corner pubs,
door and window grilles protect
from pecuniary visitors.

Zoloft keeps your sanity secure
Lipitor strengthens artery walls
ocean’s tympani soothes
night’s unfailing malaise.
Wine sedates; fears
of intimacy are cured
by distance and solitude.

Furious seas keep outsiders at bay
graves withhold the names of their dead
razor-wire ensures that children cannot escape.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Movie

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Cyril Wong

Who knew we’d like the same movie,
Lost in Translation? You brought the DVD
(which, in the end, we never watched together)
to the hotel room, along with cigarettes,
tidbits, and other paraphernalia
to heighten our play; barely stuffing
the holes of silences that widened
the closer we got to realising we had
little in common. Yet when we played,
the way you touched and not touched,
kissed and not kissed, like a child
who had entered fire and was terrified
to meet it again, a light
flickered within me like inside a dark room.
When things didn’t work out between us,
the last moment from the movie
unreeled in my mind, when Bill Murray
embraces Scarlett Johansson in a crowd before
they’re forced to part, whispering in her ear
words the audience cannot hear; I wanted
so badly to know what he said I could cry.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

RSVP

Posted on May 1, 2014 by David Stavanger

You

Seeking a relationship with a Psychotherapist

My current relationship status Hyper-vigilant

My height Reduced

My body type Venus flytrap

Do you have children One previous episode

My Personality I like it when you smile, I love it when you don’t

My hair

My eyes A colour that doesn’t run

My desires Citrus fruit but not in a weird way

Religion Marked obsessive traits

Pets Mild panic attacks

Zodiac sign Cipramil

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Directions

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Caitlin Maling

Karinjini by way of Kataby, Geraldton, Dongara, Carnarvon, Exmouth; by way of the Brand; by way of driving out at midnight, by way of fences and flametrees and bardi; by way of moonlight and the dog-star, the cross and Corona Australis; by way of four am, by way of bone silence, by way of somnambulence amid truckies and road-trains; by way of midday in the banana fields; by way of midnight in the campground; by way of hollowed and halved water receptacles bearing wine, by way of pretensions, of West Cape Howe, Leeuwin Estate, Pendleton; by way of air-mattresses; by way of song of burrowing frogs; by way of days at the beach, the sea, the ocean, the Indian, the blue, the deep, the coral, the bungies, the reef, Ningaloo; by way of the wobbygong, escaping by way of currents and belly-up, by way of floating, by way of Turquoise Bay; by way of salt-grit in your hair; by way of saturation, of summer storm, by way of tents with broken ramparts; by way of electricity, of lightning; by way of the dunes, the thunder of sand, an inland tsunami; by way of your fingertips, cold cracking metatarsals and callouses; by way of tires, by way of gravel roads, by way of rust in the undercarriage, rust in the red-dirt, rust in the sunset; by way of fraternization in the long-grass; by way of fish-n-chips in Dampier, by way of the peninsula, the salt isthmus; by way of the boab; by way of turning inland, turning inward; by way of distance, the peaks of Mungaroona Range, the decay of Maroona Iron Mine; by way of wild donkeys, lost camels, far-off dingoes, gnarled goannas; by way of track; by way of Bee Gorge, Kalamina Gorge, Yampire Gorge; formed by way of Dolomite and Mount McRae Shale; built by way of granite, by way of tessellations and the fractal of mineral sands; only seen by way of the microscope, overlooked in the rear-view mirror by way of your eyes, the iris, the retina; by way of mistaking your tongue for the milky way; by way of waking to red dust on skin, ochre touch-painted; by way of hiking to Kermit’s pond, the cool of water in desert; by way of packing-up; by way of defenestrating apple-cores at 140kmph; by way of racing utes to no destination; by way of signs counting down 800km to Perth, 700 km to Perth, 600km to Perth

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

After Mutability

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Fiona Wright

Perhaps the best cells are the ones we can’t kill off,
a persistence of the fittest, although mutation’s
always painful. It’s two thousand and fourteen,
and I know no-one who has been
uninjured. It thinks in me,
this shadow. I put on sunscreen, and am surprised
to come in contact with my skin. In the same day,
I’m chatted up in a café
by an aspiring novelist who’s using boldface
and an ugly font, and the woman I pay
to tear the hair out of my legs offers a discount
because my skinny limbs
won’t need much wax. In the same day,
I watch a woman in pink boardshorts
hold out white bread
for a spring-loaded terrier,
an ancient cyclist on City Road with bubble wands
mounted on his handlebars, although they say
this place has gentrified: mutation’s
never simple. I dream my top teeth
splinter, turn to chalkdust in my mouth:
so I am in the world’s gaping jaw.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Scorched Implements

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Iain Britton

1

here the wind pushes / rests

snatches at birds’ feathers / sniffs out

body heat the thermal readings

of a day’s exertion

home-centred

i drop to the ground

stain my belly green

and crush wormcasts

toasted by the sun

2

the road to Ngamotu

is littered with stone emblems

facades lying flat

people in wrinkled skins


i suffer from the ingredients

of the night before

i look uncomfortable

sitting in my seat sitting on stories

left behind before walking

into the city through fields

of potatoes / homes specifically built

for soldiers / farmers / their wives

their maidservants

3

the road to Ngamotu

is not all tinsel-taped

and entangled /

leather boots have flattened it

for easy access

for viewing landscapes

rusty ploughs

scorched implements in their making


the neighbourhood

has retreated uphill

to live amongst the camellias

the rhododendrons

the laughing owls

to love amongst the sectarian adherents
wearing white flowers

4

a generation now dug in

stares skywards

under the weight of its hangi stones

its verbs silent


i suffer from the remoteness

of a woman

holed up in a dream of herself

her habits / her bucolic version

of staring at a gift horse

and smelling the fertile sweetness of its breath

5

the road is as it is /

dry dusty pot-holed / an appian way

plundered by workers every day


the horse knows best knows where to go

past the skypools of relatives / gates bolted to the earth

past forests arguing about longevity


the woman

sits at a table in the backyard

midges shape her thoughts / they

swarm

and spin /

her mind takes refuge

amongst tribal affiliates


a shamanistic resonance

influences this homecoming

and if i listen (like i should)

these outcrops of peaceful

solidarity

should be enough

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Saved

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Maxine Chernoff

“… the awkward, hybrid position of description.” Christian Metz


Between the tide and its remnants, sticks and small, dead creatures, there is water, which is never itself at the moment of observation.

Between the painting and its signature, there is caution and relief, chosen sutures and limits, patient listening as a furnace sputters and someone says death and taxes.

Between the eyes is the heart of the matter, encountered and touched without knowing. Thought lands lightly as a moth or fully as reason assigned to its grave.

Between the luster of day there are four occurrences, three grievances, two questions and a hand that reaches for something stolen from night’s ancient requiem.

Between the need for speech and the comfort of silence, there is a plane lost at sea and a tinsel left by the roadside.

Between what you say and what follows is the tundra of signification and the desert of signs. Thought’s omens strike. As a clock rings the hour, the saying becomes the said.

Out of time and reach, there is the possible. You say a word and meaning flees the frame.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

The End of an ‘A’

Posted on May 1, 2014 by Terrence Chiusano

“Small exact houses set back from small exact lawns.”
“Two yellow vapor lamps.” Mist. Rain. Mud. Main

street. Fogged glass. Wind. Wet gables. “Little rain-soaked
capes of lindens, birch groves, pin oaks.” Assume I was

once there (I do) studying the moss (okay?) between
rotten tree trunks; ant colonies; blackbirds; voles; beetles;

skunks; honeybees. The major (the history of it) was a minor
(the philosophy of it). The science of it assumes otherwise.

•

Honesty itself
is an assumption—
of guilt, usually.

•

So I assume—YOU, for
instance, studying

tree roots. It’s “easy”
to “allow for” such

“honesties”—bumps,
accidental imperfections.

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged

Drowning

Posted on May 1, 2014 by David Howard

voluminous
shawl, blue with white

over her head

Posted in 61: NO THEME III | Tagged