Too much rosé

“I’m Taking a year off to head Downsouth,

to be by the ocean and collect my thoughts.”


“That is so lovely, I wish I could do the same thing. You really deserve it.”


“I just want to step away from the circle

to kind of, deconstruct myself, you know.

Because lately, I’ve felt like most of myself

is borrowed.”


“I know, I know- my sister’s friend did a similar thing up in the mountains

and she came back radiant.

Now she makes jewellery and its

going really well. I’m happy for you,

this is so exciting.”


“Yes, it is.”
After three months of drinking the sweet South,

where at nine in the evening

your options are to sleep

or water the white anthuriums,

a rosé in hand

half-listening to a voice documentary

about Syria (to keep informed)

and the racket of crickets (to keep going on).

In either case, there is only one option for the view: the grand night of ocean sounds, serious stars and coconut palms.

This full-circle view for the last ninety two nights is now cut into the back of my eyes;

and in my long sleeps there was only one dream that I had-

long palms and white stars that swum drunk in a pink sea mass.


If at nine o’clock in the evening,

while you are watering white anthuriums

in the seaside South

with a rosé in hand,

you find yourself wondering

‘Now what?’,

clearly, happiness is a semblance.


Marjorie Content

Image – Marjorie Content, Anthurium, Gelatin-silver print, 1931



The will to have children,

it comes in atoms

that make up slow smokes

of fear:

Fear that the sand may forget

the way our footsteps sank in-

pumped plump with life.

That a golden age would dawn without us,

that no one would read our name out loud

even in an obscure book at a city council library.

That it wouldn’t have mattered a thing

if we lived or died.


But, if a speck of our dreams, our secret schemes

made it to promised land

tangled accidentally in a hair of some distant being that lived

only for itself and its day,

I suppose we could call it immortality.

The will to have children is not about love or other noble things;

it is about the fear of dust.


Image – Untitled, by Ashley Carlton


Making things up

It’s remarkable

how far we go

to make glorious, memorable dust.

It’s incredible how much we give

to feel big enough to laugh,

for an arrangement worth saving

pixels for a while.

It’s funny -in a very broad sense-

how sweet we are to believe what we make.

It’s only natural, we have to get by;

it’s harder to choose and end it, because

what if…

What’s stupendous is how all this-



golden evenings,


things hearts can do-

all this fanatical whole,

this evermore,

is just for us to chance upon,

rapture in and dismember

as if

it cost nothing, no time, no love, at all.  

Duane Michals The Human Condition

Duane Michals The Human Condition