Posted in Rituals


It’s like any other office
smiling receptionist
and, “ won’t to be too long.”

Most come here
not to do
but to undo
undo, “ I do.”
Some with rancour
others resignation
others relief.

She is good at this
warm and compassionate
good with advice and price
deft separating
quick processing.

She has a poster – a couple looking tense
If rancour has been calmed
she turns it around.
“Okay, okay,” says half of the couple
“I take it back … unfuck you.”



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.