Posted in Lies


Early winter mid morning Monday
the city has returned to work
at a beachside cafe
two plump women
talk urgent matters of social inequity.

Clothing precise and contrasting
black pant suit of propriety
bohemian trinketed funk
sobriety’s yin – yang’s empathy.
They speak bureaucracy
with accents of polished faith.

“ A code of conduct must be written
incorporating tolerance for the associative behaviours
of educational and social underachievement.”

The streetwise one yearns, “ to implement the process
the spirit of funding is incorrect.”
The other concurs congruently
“direct subsidy is needed
the opportunity will be lost
if only….”

The cheerful insistence of a smart phone interrupts.
“Yes … good … I was hoping to touch base
the documentation is complete …. just waiting sign off.”
All is well
they adjourn to espresso and cheesecake
and sigh at the untidiness of the world.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.

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