it often amazes me how I will write something completely..
well.. what seems to me.. to be completely
arbitrary.. only to discover a day or two later
that it is in fact a poem.. It reminds me that sitting down to write..
just to write.. when I may not have anything to say
is a form of acknowledging
that I am
acknowledging that all moments are like any other moments..
just beautiful and mysterious..
and just because the
thud of my
conjuring up dissonant thoughts does not
take away from the mystery in that moment..
and by picking up
a pen and writing
a little tap into that
beautiful gentle world is
close too close I’m lying here in bed waiting
for not much at all… just a good
moment to grab my book and start
writing and escape for
the relentless to relent just a
break.. and then the new day
with the stiff neck still sitting
stiff on top of my shoulders
for the poetry waiting for that
strange structure which allows
the words to escape their cages
for a while.. that would be
when I go out painting at night
I am painting
with my nervous system’
when I go out.. and be
in the day Steve is looking
after the kids
talking to my wife
Being the suburban man
but at some point I/He be Sid
and he can paint on the street.. but
while he is doing it
he knows.. Steve
and then grabbing the brush
then hE ?i takes it back
We makes me nervous
and I use that for my painting
last night was easy.. I had just heard Vieux Farke Toure.. son of the late great. Ali Farke Toure at the Basement in Sydney… and even though the night club down the road I found myself painting outside had no soul… the strange wild blues of Vieux and his beautiful band were still in me…
Thanks Vieux.. and happy birthday!