Posted in Truth


Our father instructed us to gather in the living room.
An announcement
a one person show
no supporting act
no props or accompaniment.
Our baby brother was ill
very ill
something  eye tis
he would be in hospital a long time
might not come home. Ever.

We are permitted to go to bed
unbathed and without prayers
a dispensation not awarded even to Christmas eve.



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.