essay: #081: Motes across Metropolis

Hopelessly adrift.
And without anchor.
Bridges collapse.
As love, does too.
Intimacy.
Yes, there's always that.


This architecture.
Designed to capture sunset's rays.
Motes across metropolis.
Catchers in the Rye.
1001 tales.
Of the city.

Pollock and Warhol.
Obscurity and notoriety.
Side by side.
Strange bedfellows for crayon drawings.
Stretched like skin.
Across gallery walls.

I taste air.
I taste sea.
I taste him.
On the tip.
Of my tongue.
Visions.
Grandiose.
And.
Enduring...

# transmission ends #

essay: #080: jesus built my hotrod

c.ministry

First they lowered the flags.
Half-mast.
For a rail disaster.
And then.
Came the floods.
Jesus built my hotrod.
God bless him.

Co-ordinated attacks.
In heart of London.
Scotland, too.
One disabled.
Another, not so lucky.

“THE DAY TERRORISM RETURNED TO LONDON.”
Headlines, next day.
Gas canisters, petrol and nails:
“A lethal combination...”
A new Prime Minister takes office.
As Blair sets sail.
Into the sunset of global peacekeeping.

Digital love.
Meanwhile,
Becomes my avatar.
Broadcast Adventures.
Nightly.
Of loved ones.
Near and far.

Breathless, again.
Carpe diem.
Sweet, sweet humanity.

# transmission ends #

essay: #079: Franks Wild Years

Numbers fascinate.
As does the relativity.
Of a windowless world.
A safe.
The click of hard, cold cash.
So early, in the morning.

Of love.
And its multiplicity.
Of currency.
Great and small.

Gaza strip takeover.
High tide.
At home.
And abroad.

Fog clings.
Meanwhile.
Eerily.
For days.

Tom Waits keeps me warm.
I see arteries to my momma's heart.
The devil on a Greyhound bus.
And a man afraid of his shadow...

# #

A patient lies in a hospital bed.
A stranger,in white.
The doctor, approaches:
“Sir, goods news, we're moving you to your own room."
“Fantastic,” says the patient.

Two days later.
Radioactive man.
And atomic particle.
A bleached shadow.
In quarantine...


# transmission ends #

essay: #078: Crash

Losing my religion.
Is what I do.
Immersed in this car-crash life.
From verdant to Molotov.
And Kyoto blue.
Wired to a world.
Of YouTube sounds.



And midnight hours.
With a friend.
Or two...




# transmission ends #

essay: #077: Chasing Volcanoes

Phil Spector makes his debut on MySpace.
Activists build replica of Noah's Ark .
On Mount Ararat.
Scientists argue.
Populations panic.
And all I can do.
Is chase volcanoes.
High in the sky...





Wai-O-Tapu
Thermal wonderland.
In God's Country.
Of Sulpher Sunrise.

# transmission ends #

essay: #076: Sirens

Maori stone statues.
Iridescent sometimes.
Guardians of fire and wind.
And of volcanic isles.
From Raglan to Rotorua.
Duck hunting season's on...

Such beautiful land.
Carved by the elements.
And by history.
Air raid sirens of Te Awamutu.
Wails deep in the night.
As does, the ticking of time.

# transmission ends #

essay: #075: cherry blossoms in autumn

A friend, adored.
Designs calligraphy for my spine.
While another says:
"I dream of you, at night..."


k.stoilkovich

Cherry blossoms in autumn.
And 4-million-year-old whale skeletons.
Excavated in Tuscany.
Tsunamis, meanwhile.
Washes away.
Us...

What was once.
Is now no longer.
And liberation.
Beautifully complete.
Complicit.
Makes me soar.
And smile.
As another branch extends.
Into the wide open vista.
Of the unknown...

# transmission ends #

essay: #074: three colours cobalt

If emotions were a landscape.
They'd be the jagged backbone.
Of this mystical land.



They'd be...
The cobalt blue.
Of North and South islands.
Tattooed vines across my spine.
An ipod, to soundtrack by.
The Strokes.
"Life seems unreal..."
And it is.
For the uninitiated…

Yes.
Three colours cobalt of an accidental tourist.
To kin, long missed.
And gifts, not expected.
To silvery skies to surf.
And geothermal lands to explore.
love.
love.
love.
the fucking craziness of it all ...

# transmission ends #

essay: #073: architecture of happiness

The architecture of happiness.
Such a beautiful decree.
Says once you find the missing piece.
Grab hold tight.
Never let go….

The architecture of life.
Alternately.
Says the spark will burn.
Sometimes, more brightly.
What do we know?
What do we desire?

Restless as the albatross.
Circling the seven seas.
Adoring, this world.
For its love.
And its hate.

The architecture of now.
A fabric, sewn of this.
Below.

“She was made after the time of ribs and mud. By papal decree there was to be no more people born of the ground or from the marrow of bones. She was first to be created: cardboard legs, cellophane appendix, and paper breasts. Created not from the ribs of man but from paper scraps.”

And sometime, later…

“She stepped over her creator, spreading his blood across the polished floor, and then walked out of the factory and into the storm. The print of her arms smeared; her soaked feet tattered as they scrapped against wet pavement and turned her toes to pulp.” People of Paper, Salvador Plascencia

“It’s about the beauty of it all.”
Whispers someone close.
Someone loved.
Yes, expression.
Ability to imagine.
So many, many possibilities...


# transmission ends #

essay: #072: sweet miles

Sometimes, things touch you.
Move you, beyond power of words.
Children in the fading light, of a sunset.
To the warm nectar, of Miles.
So warm, so wrap me in the sun.
So Sketches of Spain...

To friends, who will be missed.
And the warmth of their arms,around me.
In this ever-changing world, we adore...



Sketches of summer global warming.
Adios, and sayonara...

essay: #071: Radiance

Watching summer storm, blow in.
Winds sultry and hot.
On destiny's horizon.
Think of snow,in Malibu.
And Doomsday Clock slipped forward.

Think of Babel and its multiple tongues.
The horror, the beauty.
Time has legs and marches on.
Can we ever be.
But a footprint, in the sand?

#transmission ends #

essay: #070: Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Damn this confessional.
Dragging it all to the surface.
The flaws.
The vulnerability.
The ambition...

"Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around - nobody big, I mean - except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff - I mean, if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy...." - Catcher In The Rye

Damn this confessional.
For leaving footprints in the sand....

# transmission ends #

essay: #069: The Size of Houston.

North Korea is a gulag,the size of Houston.
Says Mr President.
When all I see, is.
Little boys with nuclear toys.
Of a nation living in Dark Ages.
Of plutonium, more prized, than electricity.
Of a North and South.
Always at war.
Of people's starved.
And leader's plump.

Sanctions forthcoming.
For provocative acts.
From Toy soldier regime.
Kiss, Kiss, Bang, Bang and goodnight....

# transmission ends #

essay: #068: In memorial

Obsessed by the moon.
And all that it illuminates.
War on terror.
And terror of war.

Of a sombre silence.
So deep.
So penetrating.

In memorial.
184 beams of light.
To commemorate.
The day the world stopped...
Falling.
We still are....

# transmission ends #

essay: #067: fairytales for the modern age.

My son adores the world.
Of Roald Dahl.
Reveres him, like a God.
Land of friendly giants.
And fairytales, for the modern age.

How do I tell him.
People fall like leaves.
From planes in the sky.
And plot with malice.
Yet, when we love.
We understand the meaning of life...

So, I wrap him in my arms.
And write for a better future.
Letters to him.
And his own.
A million miles from now.

# transmission ends #

essay: #066

Love is...

essay: #065: Dresden of Ruins

AFP photo.

If Gus Van Sant's camera was rolling.
There would be silence, right now.
In the aftermath of violence.
As a man surveys.
Where once there was life.
Now, there is only ruin.
And all he can ask.
Is why?

# transmission ends #

essay: #064: i still dream in color

My name is borg #775433.
And I work for a Corporation.
Slave to consumerism.
Rat in a cage...
THANK YOU FOR VISITING TODAY, MAM.
WE DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR STAY.

And yet, all I see.
Is this...
Endless beach.
Crystalline and virgin.
Tropical rainforests, not yet vanished.
Great Barrier Reef, eye candy for the mind.
So damn breathtaking, it hurts.
And it will, I know.

death by tropical paradise.
i dream in color, every day.

# transmission ends #

essay: #063: Because...

Sisters, always.

essay: #062: Romance Strangely

c.victorynewsmagazine

I think of...
Intravenous drips, hanging from trees.
Indonesia, 2006, post 6.3 quake.
Mount Merapi, meanwhile.
Rumbles discontentedly.
In the distance.

I think of...
US-hurricane season's about to begin.
Predictions grim, sorry to say.
Drills, for all kinds of eventuality.

I think of...
A suicide vest.
Constructed, for maximum fatality.
Impact, of the worst kind.

I think of...
Being the accidental tourist.
Romance strangely, with a point in time.

And then, as always.
I think of...
Tenderness, of a fleeting second.
Fabulous, to the last...

# transmission ends #