The cat’s all twitchy
defensive and edgy.
My breadboard’s a rat’s nest;
my process a stress test.
I’ve misplaced a Schottky.
Sooner or later an artist will need to start taking their self and their work seriously. By an artist we simply mean one of our many amongst us. By will we mean might as in by might, or maybe. By need we mean simply by rationale, feeling, or some combination of either. By to start we mean to restart as in to start over again, which is much the same thing as what one initially meant by sooner or later when one said and asserted it: says in the former; asserted in the latter. By taking is meant offering not to withdraw any offering offered beforehand, since any one of those offerings might have been the first cause of what one, by one’s taking, has thereby received. By self we mean personal identity i.e., personality, which means much the same thing as their work as and however it’s taken since people generally only take facts from the world while those particular facts are growing, though it’s hard to admit how a picture presenting itself to one’s self as a fact in the world can say anything about the world one and we are both living in, let alone say and assert the thing seriously, since any (good/bad) conspiracy theorist will invite one to question the differences between current events as they are presented to us and the state of affairs in the world we purport, as a rule, to be living in.
Back to work alarm
finding myself under
the piss-weak lukewarm shower.
next to 8,000 real mint leaves,
and one tea tree.
Tingling and tossing
cupped handfuls of piss-weak lukewarm
cleanliness up the far end of my tub.
Bathroom floor bunnies
gathering outside the curtain
refuse to let go of the tiles.
Towel down in the tub
bathroom floor mat
soaks in one corner.
Stepping out dry,
wiping steam from the mirror,
One wiped out water hole
gathering of bunnies
into the handbasin goes, counterclockwise.
Plug, fill, and splash.
Apply gel to face.
Ignore direct contact with eyes.
From Blacktown to Kurrajong Saturday morning
And hot brekkie stop at Australia’s best bake-ry
It reads all the names of the roads it is foll’wing:
Abbott, Old Windsor, Windsor. Hawkesbury Valley’s
A Way into Windsor Street through Richmond Air Force
Base and Ham Common Bicentenary Park. Left
at East Market Street, first right into Kurrajong
Road, and west and away into Bells Line of Road.
Bellbirds–St Gregory’s Catholic Cemetary,
Left at Old Bells Line of Road from Bells Line of Road–
Tinkle from plastic wrapped branches and treetops;
Industrial plastic mould milky white treetops,
See through with polaroid wrap-around sunnies worn
On but can’t see, still, one winking example
of Bellbird to go with the bells I am hearing.
So here I sit, like a child, reading a poem;
Carparked outside a locked gate and a tiny closed
Church, borrowing power and sweetness to fashion.
And I just called my brother to remind myself
Why Grandma always called my Grandpa–Alfred
Douglas Robinson–Henry. Among the chaos
Of his three boys going on at each other
It was because Grandma called him that. No other
Reason. Three boys were laughing and running around.
He was trying to settle them down for Cosmos.
I said, “Not the Carl Sagan version of Cosmos?”
He said “Part written, created, produced by Carl’
S wife.” I said “she of the stars in the sky inside!”
During the ensuing pause for thought, thought of
Kodama. Spoke,”you and the boys know of Hayao
Miyazaki? No? Cool! I have a collection.
Don’t let me forget to bring them next time I see you.”