haiku saucer in the sky moon rises over whitman tablecloth of stars whitman cold as white whitman cold as haiku whitman moon walt whitman as haiku moon haiku face of sky whitman rising over moon flying saucer stars
Lieve, the day we found out that you were here, and on your way, it was a hot summer day in December. Kathleen and I were in Sydney, Australia, staying in a little old surfer’s apartment at Clovelly. It was warm and probably windy that day. It was certainly sunny, and the sky was like porcelain, no clouds. At around midday Kathleen went out for a walk while I did some work on my computer, a part of my deal for being in Australia instead of Stockholm, experiencing a summer which was winter there. When Kathleen came home she disappeared into the bathroom. After a few minutes she called my name. Davey! She may in fact have also made a kind of a-ha noise just before that but I can’t be sure. You’ll have to ask your mother that. She came out of the bathroom and thrust a white plastic pregnancy test towards me. I looked at the tube: it showed a definitely positive reading. And that reading was you. I remember Kathleen lying down on the blue-and white bedspread and sleeping for two—for you.
Lieve, the day you were born was also warm, a long summer day in August. We were back in Stockholm, living in a ground-floor apartment in Svedmyra, out in the suburbs. It had been hot all summer long. I had ridden my bike to work every day, feeling a sudden surge of energy at the idea of your impending arrival, thinking also that there might be no time for riding bikes or sitting in parks or going for walks, like your mother and I did that summer before you arrived. As it turned out, our walks didn’t stop, and almost as if by magic you were with us. But I’m getting ahead of myself. The day you were born was a very hot day indeed. It was also a Sunday. We had been expecting you to arrive a week later, on the first anniversary of our wedding. But that Sunday morning, at around 10am, Kathleen called out my name once again, this time from the kitchen. I came in from the lounge room and saw a small pool of water at your feet. Eight hours later you were there for real.
City of burnt grass and black limousines. City of nudes and spider lilies, where the grass stands up even though it is on fire, whistling a harvest tune. By the railway lines, entropy rules: jagged weeds and mystery melons scramble for space, riddling the rails, disguising the sleepers with their fantastic tendrils. Like a smoker's signal, brave and futile. Trains slice these ribbons into tendons, timetabling history, scattering seeds, accelerating some abstract chaos. Trampled soccer balls like snakeskin or leather on the shining road. Dressed as inspectors, we climb the stainless steel stairs, pass the plastic clinic and the coffee mall, then enter the machine room. Here, the rumble of traffic is merely a shiver in your bowels, barely shaking the keys. Predicting story arcs is what it's all about. Prisoners, good deeds and friendships betrayed. The studios will be eating out of our hands. Privately, we model alternate scenarios: the prisoner escapes; the can of boiled beef falls from the adjutant's hand; a friendship is consummated in a bloody latrine scene. Here, the streets are viewed as if through the screenshots of an amateur photographer: the perspectives slightly skewed, casting one's eye off balance. Jets scramble overhead, but no one notices. The flags of a thousand federations burst into the blue sky, unfurling like false spring! The sound of trickling water consumes bus drivers and cart pullers alike. Insanity is okay, although mistakes are sometimes made. Usually, these thoughts disappear. Slowly, a city comes to know itself by the bend of a river, the argument of a steel canal. Behind us, mountains; ahead, cartwheels of conversation, opening.
there has to be an invisible moon over on the other side of the sun gravitationally drawing me to you how else can i explain these forces lifting me out of my dreams to float like a silver balloon out our window behind the dunes & under the beach beneath the pavement & the rocks in my head & the stars full of music i am its puppet now floating in space its honey power rising in my veins because each night i lie beside you we’re walking on some other moon neither of us knows its secret name it simply rotates at the same speed at which it revolves on a toothpick tempting me to open up the window to leave the curtains wide open the doors unlocked & the radio on playing ‘Hey Moon’ over and over until it’s as if we know each note a starfield swirling slowly into zero already full draped in white shadow guiding us through the afternoon my lips mouthing a weird loon-song on some high cliff north of sound otherwise what’s making me blink speak to us in jazz notes only moon without twilight we’d see no light without the moon surfers would just be dudes with beards going ‘wow, man’ and here it comes: this pure wave that dares to engulf me breathing solid & yet empty at the same time so glassy & perfect is this cylinder what a perfect moon that made it! how else am i to explain the paths that burn fluorescence as we walk hey moon, i’m wearing sunglasses but i can still feel you, feel me come take a walk on the moon babe & let’s make ours an incredible one this thump-thump? our tiny hearts you feel that moon? we feel you too rising like a science-fiction version of ourselves over the horizon wow pulling us in with its silver strings i can hear it calling out to me o hai as a radio wave across the universe about to rise ... about to set over us our hearts about to go boom boom ... i can see it shining through your eyes we’ll walk in slow-motion on stardust tuck a moon-beam behind your ear & everything else will just disappear
you dress young but then you doubt it take a look at the band & think who are these idiots? you remember dressing young & feel slightly allergic to music while all around you (idiots! fawning over you & new order yes now i remember the way you dressed when you were younger (although not as young as your sister was the night you accompanied her to bikini kill at the wollongong youth centre (would 'chaperoned' be a better word? you remember kathleen hanna shoving an old-school telephone down the front of her undies you remember what it felt like to feel old as cool blasts of chill-wave air smacked your face head- on ... you were too old to remember the proton energy pills but nevermind i mean forget it i saw the future in a room full of moshing girls & the minor threat of sk8rs hanging outside (bored boys who told stories about sk8tn & shit (did they also dress young - you betcha (of all people! you grow old, you grow old you shall trade in that dud album by bob mould for a second-hand copy of theatre of gnomes who knows shakedown’s finale like me (i’ve seen spew coming out of a port kembla sky it’s just steam some idiot once claimed (yeah there’s nothing polluting about it ... you grow old but continue to dress young like some fifty-year-old drunk wearing okanuis extra bitter still got it still yearning for that clayton’s moment (whatever it was - nevermind redux dress young grow old & die smiling