Soft flute with few notes, light touches us.
All tone and feel, we are easy to play.
Clouds move across the sun, which is our fierceness,
which passes like a cloud. Thoughts are nothing
and the space they leave makes me brave.
The trouble with time is our need to slice it up,
wearing moments like badges on our neat lapels.
I`m not sure trust divides into degrees, or
how much nothingness being can withstand.
I ditch our simple music to hold that thought.
Wheat, lactose, television, faith;
the list of things which are bad for you is
longer than the arm of God at his grumpiest.
Zion is an idea, not a place. It`s hard to
get your head round that, considering
everyone needs to know they have a home.
I am concerned about your wandering;
to belong is to be, but to what ? What?
The reply is deafening; all tanks and bombs.
Love`s become another threat to your system.
Call me goyim,
the list of things I am includes being human.
The sun comes out. Our feet
rub and rake the chilly beach.
We want a prize; the day isn`t enough.
I watch him, head bent like a ten year old,
scouring grit for that one bit of magic.
This has become a serious business.
I twirl emerald between finger and thumb,
a cloud turns it into glass again.
Moments don`t queue, they fuse together.
Where did your long hair go?
Where is the girl I used to know?
When did you lose that happy glow?
Hours are loops of spun music and light.
The tide recedes and we tiptoe its lip
in a scavenger ballet. Way over there
the horizon goes nuclear and details dissolve.
A silver-rimmed silhouette is wrapping
my fingers round a plump heart-shaped stone.
Hey, what if conspiracy theories
were a conspiracy to stop us thinking?
Think about that in American, like, neat.
Discrimination is not so much a whisper
as a stack of oblique failures
one can ascribe to being not quite up to it
whatever the `it` might be; a job,
place in a queue, the time spent looking
for proof of something we feel
having gone through a process of elimination:
clothes, manicure, posture, eye-contact,
hair, breath, armpits, tone of voice.
Some of us want to lie down in a box;
some of us will still make five out of
two and two. And some us are well scary.
Sandra Tappenden 2005