Hills on Fire


From where I am you

don’t just smell it when

the smoke rolls down from

high above on the

now blazing, flaming,

angry, vengeful peaks,

bringing with it the

smell of disaster.

This is disaster

that we earned ourselves.

Thick,  so thick it stings

our eyes and sticks to

our skin leaving soot

residue as the

great clouds roll down, chased

by wicked, vicious,

hungry flames, wildly

devouring life, claws

of unbridled greed,

hunger, repressed for

decades now unleashed

by a single act.

From where I am now

I can feel the heat

from ten thousand fires.

The horizon glows

ominously, it

heralds the approach.

The flames are coming,

they don’t stop coming.


A hardly worthy examination

A dream world sneaks in from elsewhere

interjected into a structure, free-form,

passion and flow, freedom-necessary,

things can be things that weren’t those,

cunning tricks, the cast of characters

done things you didn’t expect or done

what you had expected, unexpectedly

Your dreams sneak in from somewhere in the posterior region of some cortex filled with the unintentional memories of our lives’ events offering us a brief reprieve from the claustrophobia inducing regimen of our day and that which seems so strange and alien to us in these vivid hallucinations, where the labels we affix in our conscious lives appear to be tossed out at random to characters involved in the very most random acts, strangely enough seems satisfyingly normal in the surreal realm of dreams.

How queerly moves time,

non-linearly, no stream of process

rather rain, drops fall in random

puddles on the ground are sames

but the different too, so that

seemingly we re-enter the familiar

in the different countless ways

Time itself, perhaps the strangest element of the dream world which moves neither forwards nor backwards with any conceivable predictability but only occurs in the most awfully random arrangements of events that we seem to encounter the same situation although rarely do we recognize that it is the same because of the random manner that we are re-introduced again and again almost like we’re seeing it from the perspectives of various others each time it comes around again.

Riding in the bus at night

ImageWaiting for buses in the dark, tedious, in this hard, cold air. Black ocean sky above, black ocean walls surround, closed in, it’s sinister. The bus appears, sneaking through the curtain towards me on the frozen street. All tattooed up with advertising’s dirty gang signs telling me I’m ugly and nobody likes me. Buy something, watch this; see who you need to be. This lumbering, tired, been on this track all day and night, rectangle, easiest thing ever to draw in “elemen-tree” school. Leans over on and rolls up alongside me, over dramatizing its, too-long-to-come-to-a-halt, and then the whole air-lock door procedure, a proclamation, heralding wore-out gallantry arrived. Ostentatious, this chariot coach, refuge at least. An arctic, blue hand slowly constricts, grins at paralyzed fingertips, sore toes. In the clean, black, night-sky, pure, like what space must have felt like. Thoughts of terrified monkeys, their trust betrayed for nationalist hubris. What were the stars to them? They’re all dead though, the stars and the chimps, and this street but for a manufactured, modeled, moded, machine, skidded, crunching snow under clumsy tires. The indifferent gaze of an indifferent pilot, tired, proletariat eyes,. What does he see in the stars? Does he think that he’ll be dead like them soon? Boarded, relieved of the terrible grip of unforgiving, indiscriminate, predatory, climate. Set down with strangers, some of them like stars, died but didn’t know it, their shine slowly draining out of them here on the bus with strangers.