Blue Danish goes soft in jazz.

Blue Danish goes soft in jazz.


without your imagined prescience
the unlocked gate claps in the wind.

in a universe emptied of meaning
Suns collide against the iron walls of time.

how the storm beats the roof,
cars creep by – wombats in the mist.

each month i have lost a friend,
this is the time of winnowing.

above the clouds i conjure my harvest -
the light, the darkness & the stars.


to a riff of stand by your man a bright red can
rolls down the glaring concrete.

council guy in a yellow fluoro jacket
chops the air as he talks in Arabic to his empty hand.

a woman in thongs wheels a wobbly pram,
“you want my wife?” her man snarls in my face.

dripping with sweat & coca cola,
our failing bodies are not enough.

beyond the road, love’s old sweet song as sparrows
feed on the sweat of an ancient tree.

the name of God is inadequate
unless we understand her manifest wit.

two dozen butts rise in the breeze in perfect time
as automatic doors slide open.


he opens an album of the farm.
his life is sepia & it glows.

sand builds & smears the lens,
he feels it hard along his veins.

where are those Clydesdales now?
they took them to that war.

he is there, not here
because there is warm & sun.

singing nurse swings open the door,
a steel bedpan draped in a towel.






Born as phantom dawn seeped thru eastern sky.

Destined to go west where  glowing  plush     golden

purple      crimson     sunsets     fill        the          sky.

God’s favourite colours.

Breathe !                       SLAP !

Life greeted me with a whack on the bum.

A sign of times to come.

Is this the way ?

Breathe in.  Death.  Breathe out.  Death.  Breathe in.

On-going Death broken by small breaths

Is that all there is then ?

Is     this     the     way ?



There’s a new blue sky clumps of trees a lush-green savannah

a slow-flowing river         misty hills                 in the distance.

Evolutionary paradise.

Is this the way ?

No charts.    No signposts.   No paths.

We can’t get lost if we don’t know where we’re going.

Never standing still.

Hold my hand Bear as we walk towards

that wall of darkness slowly rolling down the hill.

“The map is not the territory.”

I’ll keep breathing if you will.








Sleep in deep peace

precious one.

Daddy has our backs as we weave our way

thru the Dreamtime’s many subtle tones

& layers of soft black.

Gradual gradations

until all merge together.

Earth     Moon     Sun     Space-Time

converge as one.



— Well that’s that. Bad luck if you missed it.

Only get one of those in life.

— Might as well go home.

(pastpresentfuture all squashedtogether into Now).

—Yeah. Suddenly very chilly.

Below the horizon huge hills of ice advance).



Home where all is part of Buddha.

Equally to be loved.

Being Human is part of Buddha.

Equally to be loved.*






*see Kerouac’s “The Dharma Bums”.


Where has my country gone, rolled over

lost in flight, downed like a shot Jabiru.

In the far flung towns, named after so many founders

weeping nights ring cold stones, the old chorus

hums in a dirge of forgotten languages, songs that made

poems into beings that walked taller than the old world.

All the slavish bluestone, dug out and moulded

by broken hands transported in a captive trance

hearts rendering anxious lilts of strength

above the beating arterial basins of underpinning webs,

of tribal places turned to graveyards;

beneath a sky of chained legends, shining points

invest the shallows, picking out each obeisance

reaching for the ticket of leave

from the searing breath within the labyrinth.



The horses stand in dreamy sleep.

The horses stand in dreamy sleep.

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

See all the days & insights wheel across this point.

Nouveau riche, I'd cycle on my way.

Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way.




Lo dice el medio, el lenguaje. Pero

no solo el lenguaje. Menos

lenguaje del medio: este

jueves 13, a las 18.30 hrs.

el fundador del grupo de los

LANGUAGE poets, Charles

Bernstein, realizará la conferencia

“El campo expandido del

L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E” [sic]. Previa

a cargo del traductor Enrique

Winter. (Azar de fronteras des-

tinaciones suscribe, subraya, inter-

viene mismo día, misma hora, bailando

Waylla Wisa en ferias libres de Arica).


El campo expandido del L=A=N=G=U=A=J=E

traduce como intraduce (ex-

pande) The Expanded Field of L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

arqueo donde Bernstein se las ha

con el ¿inesquivable? fantasma

de la deconstrucción in itself – fuera

lo que fuera. L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E,

parche antes de la herida, previendo

a la susodicha, deniega a ratos y estratos, en-

simisma. À la lettre: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E

not        deconstruction as

and end in itself [¿…?] but

reconstruction, emplacement, ex-

p-a-n-s-i-o-n & Ach die Kunst. Sino

e indicio, dicha, cómo (como) no, de Erín

Moure, de lo inmemncioable (G. O’Brien):


yseopoenen, demasiado otodo o nuda

sconstrucció de            mucho mayor
que formasespecifi9s de la instalacde
à suivre


Cuanto a Waylla Wisa, piedradiente lengua

mengua en Arica: imaynatataq watusun-

chik ¿cómo vamos a traslucir)(kay watuy

lo imposible (mana atinata) de traslucir?



[ Arica, 10.11]


That’s a good idea I’d say and you’d reply

of course it is, it was mine

and we’d laugh and I’d nestle further

into your abode and forget I hated cigarette smoke

and the steely grey of ash that seemed to grow

all over you towards the end like some kind of mould


You were a fixed point that anchored my sail

made it firm against the gusts when needs must

and now you’re dead

chards of you mirror-flash into my mind

as if it’s all a practical joke and you’re not dead at all


I see your face, and hear your voice

admonishing any hint of sentimentality.


We’d drink tea from Russian china perfectly brewed

and share, putting it all out there, laying bare

and making sense where sense was needed

to bear existence.


Nouveau riche, I’d cycle on my way, or walk

It never seemed right then to travel except under my own steam.


The photo triggers a skirmish.

The photo triggers a skirmish.

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