As The New Year Approaches

'Tis the season for contemplation, amongst other things. The New Year approaches, we resolve, we seek resolution(s).

Here are some of mine.

In 2012 I will endeavour to Get My Shit Together. To start with I aim to make fewer spelling mistakes on Twitter due to drunkenness or the the fact that my iPhone screen is cracked and I really can't see what I'm doing. Ideally that will result in me seeming less incompetent and/or hypocritical. I really do love correct spelling.

In 2012 I'm going to fix the things that are broken. I'll stock up on super strength glue and tape and other things that are good for fixing. I may need a manual, or perhaps I'll just look up fixing strategies on the net. I am, after all, a modern woman. Things beyond repair are to be disposed of. Thoughtfully, responsibly their crippled/crippling presence banished for ever.

I'm going to embody more 'e' words in 2012. Energetic. Enthusiastic. Empathetic. Hopefully I will become less Erratic (or Eccentric. Surely I'm still too young for that).

I'm pretty sure the world won't end in 2012. But, keeping in mind that it might (I mean, it always * might *, we've all seen Armageddon, right?) I feel like I should do more seizing. Of the day, the moment, of opportunities. So don't get too close, because you never know, I might just seize you.

I'm going to make time. With my bare hands, fashioning it out of whatever I can find lying around the house. Rubber bands that held my mail together, bits of string. Discarded wrapping paper. I'm crafty like that, plus I'll have glue left over from all my fixing. What will I do with all this time that I'll have, brightly coloured and haphazardly constructed? I guess I'll give it to the people I love and hope they appreciate it.

In 2012 I'd like to be better with numbers. More aware of the ones creeping up and up on my credit card statement, less concerned with the ones in my birth date. It's old fashioned, I know, but I'd like to memorise a phone number or two. Sure, we have Siri, voice control or speed dial, but I'd like to care enough to commit 10 digits to memory in case I have to use a payphone or a land line in an emergency like, say, the end of the world. Old fashioned, but I'm like that sometimes.

I'm going to take better care of my feet. It's only a small thing (well two small things) but they do carry me about the place and the very least I can do in return is make a commitment to their ongoing maintenance. Perhaps in return they'll move quicker, perhaps develop some kind of intuition independent of my other faculties, knowing when to advance forward and when to run away.

And so as not to have them feeling left out I'll endeavour to take better care of my hands. They are, after all, a kind of ambassador, a first point of contact, of courtesy. Mine, blistered and calloused, betray my pass times; wearing the inevitable consequences of palms pulling up on smooth metal bars and fingertips pressing down on steel strings. By taking better care I don't mean avoiding these activities, certainly not. I mean taking better care of where they go. I want to plunge them into more soil, more ocean, use them more frequently to lift little children onto my shoulders. Now I'm not going to go Michael Jackson or anything, but knowing how much is written on my palms, knowing the secrets they have all too frequently too willingly divulged, I might be a little more wary of the situations in which they might find themselves exposed.

What are you going to do in 2012? You could make it your resolution to stop by my place, small child in tow (optional), and I'll whip out my stash of glue and see if I can help you fix something- I'll give you some of my crudely constructed spare time and if you're lucky I'll share a story, in a handshake, a high five, a holy palmer's kiss.

HAPPY NEW YEAR Y'ALL

Chorus

I wrote a poem
too sad to post
which might have languished
in my iPhone's notes

but,
instead I gave it chords
and a sweet melody
to soften the blow of
clenched fisted honesty.

It's always crystal clear,
here
a blank page sits reflecting the silence
of lies

if I'm forced
to cross my t's and dot my i's
I'm a funnel
for precise thoughts.

they continue to pour
a floodgate opened by a soft tenor voice

singing

'I don't love you any more'

Now there's a chorus
worth repeating.

Though I can't make you feel
anything
at all

I can still
funnel, shape
distill into intoxicating rhyme
freeze a memory in time

record, store
and between my verses

sing along with his chorus

'I don't love you anymore'.

Wiped Out

First,
you write a couple of tragic poems about
breaking,
emptying

then you go to a bar
do some more emptying
bottles
glasses
bank accounts

come home
with a cracked iphone screen
wake up in bed
with you shoes still on

it's only Wednesday
and they're only things
the things we break
then fix,
replace

just get a new one
a better one
the latest model

(with some nostalgia for our your old nokia, you know the one
life was less complicated then
wasn't it?
so much less written, less to write)

update software
everything will be quicker now

can't you see you've had enough?
You're full, too full
gonna crash
gotta get a new harddrive
a bigger one
more room
fewer memories
wipe them away

and wipe up that vomit while you're at it.

When We're Running Away, We're Still Running Towards Something

i
arrive out of breath

hit the ground,
all beating beating heart
blood pumping

there is a need, need
for something I can never quite express

though i always try

haven't thought to ask why
i guess it just seems

obvious?

always fumbling
clumsy

(i've been like this since,
since I can barely remember

slipping off scaffolding,
regaining consciousness to find
a finger in my throat

faces concerned and looming)

It's a kind of exercize
I guess
the kind where
there's no need to leave your chair
or even be upright
lying down
works quite well, i've found.

always racing,
but to what finish line?
what tape?
no flag to wave,
or time to be recorded
applauded.

no,
always silence here in front of
blank
bare screen

but with the momentum
there's no need

i wouldn't be able to hear it anyway.

Focus. Focus. Fingers, thoughts
syncronise.

Surprised?
Always.

I guess that's half the fun.

Empty.

Syphoning out
like blood from a vein

but don't we need blood?
you say

shut you mouth
I say

away,
away

I'll be empty yet
somehow
someway.

This Time Of Year

It's the time of year
for poetry
everything ending
slowly cooked in the heat
meat falling off our bones.

It's the time of year
for breaking
and mending
thinking about new beginnings.

My foot on the accelerator
all the way to Frankston
with a hundred dollars
to buy myself freedom
from you.

I'm a skeleton now,
nothing left
bearing bright white,
flesh unbearable no more.

I'm stronger now,
strong enough to carry these thoughts
without straining

In fact,
I barely notice they're there.

At Twilight, Waiting.

The bare fields
blush red
beneath twilight's veil
and wait for the dark arms
of night
to squeeze out their emptiness
and fill them with the
ink black echo of frogs.

When columns of moonlight
will penetrate
the ancient eucalypts
connecting one star freckled face
with one bearded by dry grass.

Now,
earth and sky,
holding each other at arms length
are dancing in the darkness.

Won't You Come With Me To The Fairground?

Your head will be spinning,
I said your head,
is your feet.

The End Of The Beginning.

A night cycle beneath bats;

that's the way
I end my New Year's Day

too tired to plan my path
I increase my ride by half
at least

in tired shoes
tired feet
still covered in last years dirt

pedal towards home
to shower
and wash off
last years hurt.