Between the Satan’s Slaves and the Sisters of Our Lady of Compassion sits the pub. Once upon a time it was our post office , the world changed, and piss replaced postage. Now I sit with my mother and sip beer, the ghost of my father stares at us across the street. The ham factory…

There is a sky of wind and scatter pointed rain high above this cocoon of tin, and glass and brick, its blackness so absolute , hiding saints and sins alike , and all we can ascertain is that at 3am when all questions come to light that he turned to the gods and gave forgiveness…

III Battleship grey day, stretched taut with needlework hard fingers. Wind ruffles Old Man Mānuka , it marbles the heavens. I accept the low hum of humanity into my room, windows opened. Cracks form and dark pungent strains of celeste blue spill through and it occurs to me that as much as anything I’m Tas-man-ian.

For 40 years a giant loomed over him.  A conflagration of steel and concrete, of rubber , and copper and porcelain.  Exquisite details perched atop industrial majesty. I could stand with my hand on its trunk and be touching every house I had ever lived in. I could stand with my hand on its trunk…

Sometimes my skin becomes irritated with the world. The other times my brain is impressed by its restraint.

II Dawn spreads , fire across a crumbled page of newspaper. How will I light my fires when the last printing press retires? The birds accept another day with stoic harmonious grit. Heat pumps rumble and purr , calling the winter a lie? and it occurs to me that as much as anything I’m Tas-man-ian.

I Coffee slides into the cup, a long stream of awakening. Bread becomes toast ,its own maillard melanoma. The dog accepts second breakfast with equanimity. Clouds line up waiting to be eased up over Hemi, and it occurs to me that as much as anything I’m Tas-man-nian.

I’m not that sort of man. I tried anyway, tools out, lip set straight. pipes untethered , wet spreading across it all. I’m not that sort of man. This liaison held tight by strident moral conviction Caesar defeated, by holy Roman plumbing I’m not that sort of man. U Bends become U turns, Bravado ends…

Two Poems that took my breath away At it’s best poetry is a distilled compressed snapshot of what is going on in someone else’s head and sometimes what is going on in someone’s head is a vibration of the state of the world. Cask strength emotion served as it comes without ice or soda, you…

These words are dangerous , encapsulated in shells of iron will , rusting under brining tears These words are dangerous, most walk by eyes cast down , a threat to flesh and civility These words are dangerous, that which is cried can’t be undone, no father absolving your fears These words are dangerous, yet here…