A clarity of smog

nine days in japan and already you’re a megalomaniac

drunk on the fame of being slightly apart.

backhome there are bushfires and The Test on tv but here

you’re in the manic phase of a bipolar New Year.

 

even getting off the train at the wrong station when you can’t read the
signage and no-one speaks your mothertongue doesn’t phase you. a divine
messenger disguised as a middlelevel clerk tells you that the train to Mega
is nexto-nexto.

 

You’re completely alone in your ipod universe as Antony sings everything
is new
in the space  between your ears and you walk the winter
greyconcrete streets of Mega / Shikama houses & steel smokestacks beside a
river tamed with cement.

 

refinery pipes, mega-pylons supporting arcs of cable

inscribed from somepoint above and

triangulations of scaffolding infrastructure

your artificial horizon.

 

you know in your bones that the sun rising red through smog is rising just
for you and despite photochemical haze there’s a clarity like individual
rainbow ice crystals refulgent

on dead rice stalks beneath your feet.

 

the day is new. those birds you pass have migrated from siberia to forage
for insects between the backstreet cabbages at this precise second for your
entertainment alone. you love each moment.                 like now.
        and this one         now.

 

the entire day is unfolding. you don’t need a god

when the Universe is so perfect and selforganised.

each day dripping into the vast pool

of dayspent.

 

occasionally we find ourselves

at an intersection where

any choice will be

the right one.

 

poet's biography ->