Dating

I'm walking with God

down Garly Avenue

and wondering if God's aware

of what I'm thinking.

Cos I wanna say "I'm ready, God,

to properly commit to you,

to ask you out,

to share a pot of tea per morning,

to buy a place together,

to buy a vacuum cleaner

that's ours".

 

But I don't say this. Not yet.

It's not cos I'm scared that God

will shoot me down.

I'm concerned that God has other

plans for us,

like wilderness,

and soul stretched out

and nailed

to cross after cross,

and assemblies of re-birthing pains.

Yer, like, God don't really do the

cuddles-after-work

kinda thing. 

I know that much is true,

for we've been casual up to now,

God and I. 

 

But look, 

that's really why I'm into God.

God's different like that,

and we both can tell

just how this ends.

That's the thing

He pointed: “Look, one’s there.

The bubbles, look, he’s poppin’ out.”

I saw the bubbles.

“My wife: she saw some four before.

They’re here.”

“Look! There!” The call, this time, 

from his friend. “The bubbles, see?

Another platypus!”

I strained my eyes.

 

Shit, there never was a platypus hey…

There were none at all,

and I reckon only one or two 

have ever seen a platypus,

the other sightings merely turtles,

if that.

Shit,

maybe the creature doesn’t exist at all.

That’s the thing,

and what does exist

are needs to see one,

are needs to see so much.

 

My life, perhaps,

assembly lines of platypus

I never really saw

or never really saw the way I thought I did…

 

We want a story to tell about our lives.

We want to sound a little meaningful.

 

And that may be existence enough.

Was a platypus there this afternoon?

It doesn’t matter nearly enough

to know for sure. It never has. 

Show me to the water

Show me to the water.

I’ve had my fun and games;

I’ve sought the girls, the drugs, the scene;

I’ve gone and sought the fame.

 

Now show me to the water:

the eternal, circling path.

I couldn’t care for answers now

-those empty golden baths.

 

Baptise me forever.

Spare me sacraments

that leave behind the lakes and seas

to favour arguments. 

 

Show me to the waterholes.

Show me where it has begun.

Let me take my place amongst

the silently undone. 

Mae Sa

Still here

but kind of parochial now.

The older I get

-the more I do this thing-

the more I love Australia

and the more I get away

and the more I love…

 

And so forth.

 

So up the mountain we go,

up the Mae Sa Valley with

Redgum playing.

Cuts to ‘Flame Trees’ 

as we hit the lookout.

My little Australian chick on the back

of our little scooter. 

“Hold on tight now, Tinka,

no fallin’ off the back!” 

 

“I’m just savourin’ familiar sights”

rings out of the phone

as we park; somehow rings completely 

true as, for the first time, we meet the heavy

air 

that descends

with the sun 

over Samoeng Forest. 

 

Yer, that’ll do: heavy air,

over thick green

climbing over itself

to reach up 

and pull 

the heavy down. 

Ok, that’ll do.

 

I like to smile at the other whiteys up here

as we pass each

other on 

our little vehicles. 

They give me nothing. 

So I smile my hello

with even more intent. 

They hate to be outed as just 

another tourist.

Calm down, whitey. 

We all know. We see that you’re a tourist,

that I’m a tourist, 

that we’re in Thailand with the Thais;

let’s all just smile at one another,

for there’s nothin’ to do but enjoy the ride

up all the Samoeng Forests 

of our lives. 

 

But I do 

love to play

on bein’ an Aussie. 

I keep the handlebar and the tan and the tats

to remind ‘em all. 

I love it more and more

the older I get. 

I allow myself that bullshit.

 

And I let me love the view

and I ready up ‘Khe Sanh’ 

as we pack the scooter up

then descend

within a green now known

by touches of orange 

and splatters of calm.

Eternally

You didn’t look good.

The years had plummeted into you.

The fat, the skin-fails, the mood.

 

Yet the memory of you, by consequence,

seemed stronger. 

 

Ah, our youth, now slipping away.

Almost 40 now.

Remember, Simone, the 16^th year of our lives? 

The 17^th?

The 15^th and 14^th?

I was 15 when you told your sis I’d be 

the perfect choice

if you didn’t have a bf already.  

Ah, the years.

 

Ah, the youth.

Are we still a little young?

40 seemed decrepit at the age of 15.

Now it seems there’s still a little hope. 

 

Hm, you don’t look good, Simone. 

Not like you did back then

on Kenton Street.

Your waist not delicate.

Your clothes not light.

Your movements not so dreamy.

 

But you’re beautiful still

in this different world, this different time,

this different song.

You still keep a beat

if only by the memories.

And then those background harmonies, too.

A song still plays.

We’re still a little young

 

eternally. 

The spirit-haze

Dolphins at Tin Can Bay

-like stars that swim through the sky at night. 

The moon at rest

and wondering on what

the all

is all about.

I can sit

and wonder on you, on love,

on sex,

nature, God, all day,

all life.

I’m getting it now:

you,

love,

sex,

nature,

God

is the wondering itself.

 

Dolphins at Tin Can Bay:

alien flesh; smooth; firm clouds. 

 

The wondering,

and wandering,

like fluff-clouds.

The dolphins, the clouds, the spirit-haze.

There’s no awakeness. 

 

I’ll do my best to remember.

I’ll do my best. 

I'm not yet free

I can stroll by a palace.  

I can play the drugs, the drink, 

the search for fortune

and search for power

all for fools. I can walk away. 

 

Still, I’m not yet free. Oh no, no, no.

The pretty girls know why.

 

I trace their dance to the last degree

and together we know I’m not yet free.