Anzac Stills

The one-armed man, jogging
early on the Anzac morning
by the Dolphin Swimming headquarters
as I restored recycling stations,
fulfilling them their emptiness,
his Accidentally Beautiful
shores my loopy-portal
to this world of comedy,
this dark and crushing slap-stick;
& further back, the same spoof
performed as I was entering the Garden
of our Memories
to access rubbish bins,
a flip-top green in plastic,
young soldiers, from the barracks,
were erecting tents around
the newly re-pinned cenotaph
shaken off its plinth ha ha
that night the Earthquake’s rotund bearness
stumbled like a man who hides his queerness
hibernating though awake
until his million snakes
are released in one unbelted poor decision
and he spills his inhibitions
in this comedy of Monarchies and men
of foreign gods, the hallow fields of poppies,
and portals, and mediSin quarterlies.

The un-armed running man,
his stump was like a sausage
with the skin tucked in, tied off
and sealed…the other arm
was grabbing little handfuls
of air to keep his balance.

I should write a passage
here, a linking line, an image,
so the comedy aligns, but on
we drive now, in our Holden ute
with flashing orange roof light,
to the final bins, by the toilets
perfect with their ease-of-cleaning floors
and corridor-like length
from seat to heavy door
with the stainless steel strip
to guard against the scuff marks
soles leave helping us with doors
where I watch the Chinese tourists,
photographing seals
recharge their solar panels
on the board walk
built by the Lion’s volunteers,
and they maybe don’t know why the sign is saying:
Keep Your Distance …Many Seal, perhaps
a storm is readying?

Jack’s Hit

I sleep in the lounge/kitchen
because the bedroom is storeroom for paintings,
frames partitioning emptiness, and
primed surfaces waiting spectral scratches of art.

Forty years upright, unused
of it dual purpose, my bed is a fold out couch.
It stays open in the lounge, incompletely flat.

It is like sleeping on an open book
in the Giant’s castle, Jack, falling asleep
reading histories not found in the libraries.

The storm hits the south wall, grounding
earthy and real. Good anything thrills, pulls
from lethargy; and the beans lie flat in the gale.
A howling Antarctic resume´.

When Beauty appears in the Peasantry
or Genius walks among the Palestinians
don’t run to your king or president
with your clever Bean, you will lose them.

There are those who reach out and take
what they want, and those who wait
do triage. They are the ministers.
Added after; they administer;
they manage in a role which ages men,
they are the Man Agers.

Neither on the farm nor in the wilds,
random, like a stray dog, well bred,
but bored, I ran off, happy till it rained
and no one let me in.
Either in the forest or the field
I wonder of resistance, wonder of the log,
cut into a cord, delivered to your lawn,
but mostly of the flame, where it is, before
the match is struck. And the storm
and the acetylene
managed into atmospheres.

I’m going to say it
is how you consider your greens
in your garden do they consider Theirs
the population.

And Why Is It That
Roun Dup™
Is In the Legume,

Proper? For what
they Giants’ got
w/out us

refer to Title.