If Tokyo is the palest yellow;  then London is a sandstone brown. Sydney?
Go to Blue, of course: deep and sticky.  And Venice? Candyfloss pink: a
heady sugar rush and a lingering come down...But how to achieve the
spectrum of Brisbane's acid safety orange? Canberra's cineferous
afternoons?  The ao of  Prague seen through pilsner eyes? Or the colloquial
streets of Hanoi where glaucous shutters keep encased the carnelian rooms
of undecided histories.



They speak a mellifluous language of their own, pitched somewhere between a
wheel of cheese and velveteen. I know. I've swelled a scene or two, felt
the vibrations through the refreshment table, or in the corners where I
mumble.  I've learned beauty strikes them between certain frequencies: a
mundane  sonance.  I can identify the euphony, but not always its cause. I
must have missed the memo, or had it misread to me. Untuned, I submerge
beneath sonar range, below human hearing: evolving in dark waters, like
weird fishes; or an octabass, 1850, Jean Baptiste  Vuillame, 16hz.


There was no intent

for PH

There was no intent in the piles of paper stacked on all otherwise useful
surfaces.  Rather there were  magazines (unread, I suspect); letters
(official looking); a yellow folder (with 'Strictly Confidential' scratched
across its cover in thick blue ink); reports (bound). There was also, when
I paid more attention, poetry: in old books, and printed neatly on pages of
bond paper, like undiscovered fishes that sparkled upward from deep water,
while instruments were checked and rechecked to account for the anomaly.

poet's biography —>