Posted in Truth

Gift Horse

It must be difficult
to rise
evaporate cognitive fog
and be at work by 4:30 a.m.
ready to assault FM airwaves
with an over the top Goooood Mooorrnnning voice.
Speed shit talking.
Being a card – the wild card
pulling in the audience, ratings and advertising dollars.

This time it was easy
very easy
the news made itself – in heaven.
Theology pondered revision
the three wise men, were actually wise women.
Throw open the phone lines.

“No, no mate, if it had been three wise women
there would be no gold, frankincense or myrrh
but herbal tea’s, aromatherapy and an educational game.”

Male caller after male caller
gifts becoming more feminine
and more absurd
a woman phoned in.
She said, wise men or wise women
she couldn’t be sure
but she was sure of one thing
Joseph must have been responsible for the bookings.



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.