Posted in Antarctica


Everybody dreams
of the lottery win
of stratospheric soar of stock
the exuberant handstand of fate
changing nose pushed against shop window
to gold credit card.

Generous remuneration
gratis living expenses
closed shop.
Catch 22
only those who have gone
get to go
except with help from the inside.

Robert, thirty something – about to be 40
friendly enough
but always trying it on
with much younger women.
We called him the rampant penis – no affection or envy
old enough to be their old man
and to know better. I thought him a fool.

The interviewer looks at the application form
noting the small town address and probability I knew Robert
“he’s been with us a few years now.”
I enthuse in affirmative
“a great guy
I have a lot of time for him.”

For the story behind a story click Backstage



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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