it’s not silent in the silence

hear, there — the time passing by

like sitting on a bench seat,

by the side of some street,

and past go all the cars, with their people

inside, with their souls inside,

with each their own personal glories

inside, in little pictures —

like little pictures borne all away on one breath of wind.

only one wind, which only sometimes

is faintly heard among all the noise,

noise that goes past and past and past

and never goes away,

and no one hears the resounding of it

or the one breath of wind —

but here it is silence,

with noises inside,

with silence inside the sounds.

i want to tell you something

about time and space and

dreams that are too far away to stop

me from staring at the ceiling ---

what does it mean?

i dont know what anything means.

the rain falls on exausted grass, to

ascend again to the heavens,

there are hundreds and hundreds of pairs of lungs

too far away to ever breathe the same air,

and music and conversation and beauty and pain ---

are they all pieces of a cosmic jigsaw puzzle?

perfection at one specific state.

but, do you think,

is it being taken apart, 

or being put back together again?

it’s still raining.

the hills are waterlogged ghosts,

with their tree-blankets all woolen in white 

but for a few dark shapes,

like they’ve been transplanted from some deep, misty forest

somewhere in Europe.

the sky too is white, like the absences

in a peaceful mind;

and the sound of the rain dancing on our tin roof,

the way it only knows how,

makes a cocoon of quilts and quiet

and utterly unremedied dreaminess.

though fallen legions of raindrops block this path

and that, and make threats in their rising,

i feel still, and happy being dreary.

i wonder about these two sides 

of the uninvited river over the road.

(#australiancloudsthrowingatantrum)

and here, with an awareness

of something like the world breaking down

of temporary and changeableness

ready to go any way, either way, all ways

at any time.

like the clock sped up, like the atmosphere thinned out

like all things satellite clouded the infinite--

where is the world? on a day like today

like any day but yesterday

was it like this then?

did things sit still

and not revolve chaotic

did things walk past, just one day, another

yesterday

could people walk the earth

instead of fly tumbling away from

all that we knew?

i went to the spiders' art gallery

in the morning, in the mist

webs and webs and webs of tiny

diamond beads, of diamonds sewn

to misty linen.

they didnt mean to show off, i think

i just happened to be there. 

the moon was up, a nibbled cookie

made of mist, presiding.

rain on the jacaranda carpet,

in October

sleep for the trees in the hill-mist,

and thunder

at last, at last,

says October,

thrice

in the morning, the birds slaved away

to get my corpse to wake.

blue skies, window wide,

shouted life at everything.

i was still, surrounded,

whispering

in a coccoon of ultimatum,

landlocked in a diseased nightrobe.

the birds eventually looked at one another

saying, "well, tommorow then,"

and went to eat;

the sky thought it had better do

something other than shouting,

and spent all the day making

a complex painting of clouds.

it all went well with them.

night came, as it does.

and when the world came back,

i was gone.

i woke up to my window turned to ocean

and nothing to see beyond the fishy tears

but what was drowning blue and eyeless green,

with the drenching smell of brine

to scour my lungs;

with eyefuls of deep murk,

pearls forgotten ---

but who can go back to sleep?

the flowers are gone.

but there, the seeds ---

they say,

flowers that wither are better

than no flowers

at all.

the world is but a whisper,

while here.

none of the shouts of progress

nor any of the shiny, shiny

that hypnotises ---

only green and growth, and water

which always finds a way;

only a sky that breathes down to earth

timeless, placeless dreams

as ever since the world began.