They say a soul mate is there forever
Like going to a store and finding the best sweater
Yet I feel blown away by this weather
Boys claim to be men, but the men are no better
Is this the life?
What true love is meant to be?
Or am I the special one to wait and see?
A heart that beats a song of regret.
Brain that says maybe is better yet.
But as i sit here trying to forget.
I feel my eyes wondering to someone I just met.

Most people don't see the fences
and barriers and borders -
I've crossed them.
Earth is a thousand prison camps.

I am evolving
into the me
I will be.

But am I
making,
or being
made?

Crazy chick that I work with,
How are you today? Calm the **** down.
You’re a mess - not that anything’s wrong with that.
But you’re in my workspace, which is not your workspace.
Also, your mouth babble, eye gestures and body jerkins seem
To indicate that you wish to communicate; alas, could you
Coherently convey an idea, who would want to receive it?
Please vacate the workspace and return to yourspace.
Have a nice day.

South Korea
has modern things
on top of ancient dreams -
too quickly layered.

Strange disconnect
in generations;
rice paddy
revelations -

New traditions
steeped
in desperation.

I can't
decide
a freaking thing.
My ears ring.
And orders bring
fresh squeaky hell,
a ting-ting bell,
laughing
at my silly
dreams.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
And the storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

That time of drought the embered air
burned to the roots of timber and grass.
The crackling lime-scrub would not bear
and Mooni Creek was sand that year.
The dingo's cry was strange to hear.

I heard the dingoes cry
in the scrub on the Thirty-mile Dry.
I saw the wedgetail take his fill
perching on the seething skull.
I saw the eel wither where he curled
in the last blood-drop of a spent world.

I heard the bone whisper in the hide
of the big red horse that lay where he died.
Prop that horse up, make him stand,
hoofs turned down in the bitter sand
make him stand at the gate of the Thirty-mile Dry.
Turn this way and you will die-
and strange and loud was the dingoes' cry.

I have so much to do,
but I wont do any of it.
I'll keep the words to myself.
Forgive all and
fade into nightmares.
Don't be afraid.
The end has ended.