You cannot hide my empathy under headlines, nor party fundraisers, or under very large stones. My finger still points, though decorated with union gold, middle class idolatry, cigarette yellowing in rings of university education, it points at an absence, an abscess and I am ashamed of this, yes, but that is not why I point, I am white and priviledged, but that is not why I am allowed to point, I point because something is broken. It drags my feet to town calls above my complacency in comfortable sheets and clean dinnerware. My empathy does not hide in suds nor slogans. Sat aloft my perch, taken to with a rusted axe, chipped and shortened so as to not commit a guilt-driven drive-by on my ancestry, I toke and taunt the image of "Our Australia". Her beauty masked by terror, a wide brown bosom is branded by violence and outbursts of intimidation from cafe Windows and floral collections. Tattooed non-teethers rage at the summit, and those who knock are unanswered. 

Brother

Brother,
Although the bed smells like
safety, and the blankets cling
to your shoulders
(as if cloaking you as Eddard,
turned North to the Wall)
To be a mountain is not
your fate;
Nor a plain, for others to
pass through.
Ebb as the sea does,
crash down as a tidal wave.
Make all known,
and court sirens at twilight
with your soothing rhythms.

Sea cucumbers off the Darwin Coast

Like a wave of suddenly identified metanarrative 

I am reeling: 

bobbing my overboard to participate 

in the occasional cheeky spew. 

Is this excitement? 

Or nerves? 

Is this the new South Wales 

that the captain explored and declared barren? 

Or the undiscovered Darwin coast 

holding lovely trade of sea cucumbers, 

broken discussions and haggling 

over wares deemed a natural commodity? 

How will we live?

Heat: 43c

I have filled myself with childhood books, and rounded endings, and have faced sleep in it's allusive state all in one late evening. It has passed - to light through sunroofs and a steadily building heat. I sweep the covers from me as if an ailment or causality, pushing me toward a Dave Syndrome-esque episode, a natural kick of the legs and jaunty limb movement spinning out as if the need had switched from attaining coolness to preserving a jagged personal space bubble. Thrashing is the only option I often cling to. Hoping I may be dropped and able to slink away.

Is full

I do not know where this glow is from.

I do not know where the creaks come from.

I do not know where the stars go, or what happens to trees when the burn past ash and go up, up in smoke and smells.

I do not know if it is morning or night because both are dark. 

I do not know if my feet touch the ground.

I do not know how to sleep through snores or plumbing rattles.

I do not know how many spiders live in the cracks of my ceiling.

I do not know if the quiet is full or empty.

I do not know if we are burning up like a sparkler or down like a wick. 

I do not know how to cool my feet and calm my vessels. I do not know how many freckles I have, or whether the cafe will be open or closed. I do not know what was send under the pirate ship at the lake but I heard that it was bad and I said it was okay. I do not know the green and the blue like he does, or the characters he is yet to fill paper with. I do not know it's burns or it's violence, it's twitches in the night and it's horrorshow scrawled in ink on bathroom walls. I do not know the hair he loses in the shower, or the breathes given in the dark. I do not know the slip of lip from teeth in startled grins from that lady, and why, or why she is not speaking. I do not know why this blanket is heavy. Or why my arms are tired. Perhaps I flew too far. Perhaps too many cigarettes. Burning up like a sparkler, and down like a wick. 

It's not people

How long must I sit here

Hearing through the wall

Watching the clock

Observing the bucket of slurpie melting,

Waiting,

Just waiting

For you to finish behind the door.

Body of Work. historyb

Fidel Castro sits and gestures mildly,
Tongue wagging with Israeli crude oil prices,
Suited with British lapels protruding from a revolution-weary jacket.
A Che Guevara grin pushes and tightens lips,
pointing fingers at the existential crisis’ of President Nixon,
holding bananas behind his back as
the shares for the UFC go down and down and down.
I am kneeling. Faced toward the homeland,
toward Haile Selassie, [the not quite god],
and my phone is ringing, ringing as threat or opportune moment
that only calls once.