Ice and Rock

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jutting out of the sea,
some emerging from a bed of purple flowers
on the edge of a rocky cove.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some jagged and joking like jackals
in the early morning frost
as they trudged off to the ice to skin seals
in their most ragged clothes,
returning in the soft air with candy for the young
and blood soaking into their skin.

I was born on an island of rocks,
some rough like women with calloused hands
mending the flakes, laughing at the melting snow
while their children jump the ice pans,
proving their worth to each other,
returning in the chilly air ringing their clothes
to eat under the light of a kerosene lamp.

I was born,
kicking and screaming,
on an island of rocks,
where the ice flows fill the sea.

Mereological Nihilism

Eyes swirl up from the dust
and watch it sparkle in the emptiness.

Heads rise still black from the plastic veil
and push into the noise of:
traffic moving,
girls gossiping on the sidewalk,
of gulls saying ‘life, life, life!’
descending over the dirty street lamp,
and all around the music is playing,
factories humming fog, cars beeping, sirens, bottles raised,
heads alight with alcohol,
ears afire with jazz in a salted glaze,
minds driven by eager madness -
even in the silent spaces fires are teaming
white dwarves sucked into a giant star blasting light
into the windows where babies suck in the world
growing and growing
in mind,
in madness,
in natural and unrecorded rhyme
pushed by the wind of thought
the dwarf circles the giant,
lets loose the fury of parts and time
while a single gulls drops
for the last sign of food as the sun goes down
shrieking ‘rise, rise, rise!’
and the universal eyes listen
in undifferentiated awe.