from Übermanis Geniac


Two nights earlier, at home
in admiration of my gymness,
I had begun to labour on the colours
I was going to travel in;
blue-grey, acrylic-practical,
at first, but, finally, settled on turquoise
in heavy cotton hood, a silver zipper,
for the feeling of it: light and strong
beneath my eyes. The ring was a surprise,
through it now, so always is there
faint eroticism.
Kundalini idling. Or
driving with expired moral license,

key probable return to falling times.
Bring it on, I said, it’s entirely

unsustainable Enough I’m not committed
to my station; this is middle
age? It’s nothing! It’s a fable.
Am keeping the hair long, beard dyed
a few shades darker than my locks,
a faint sense of my own absurdity
growing in the ring…But never mind

that, it’s a journey, which now finds
me walking Miramar, a long pohutukawa
stretch in flower, bellbirds boggling the ears
with the beautiful cadences Electronica
has not been able to replicate
without a microphone. Returning down
the street where Nowhere met its end,
the fragrant spice of warm food in a bowl
expelled from me the comment to its savoury incantation,
to which the young woman lifted her lid
offering to my unknown fingers her contents
in the seconds we had before a car pulled up
and took her with the dish. The taste has stayed
far longer than the tiny morsel, a moment
of strangers in spontaneous human unity.

I could return home now, satisfied
that things are as they should be.




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