Commute, No Commutation

Morning cars line up for the green
Farting steam, sweating, dripping, bleary headlights staring
Each a muffled dissonance of radio vibrations
Each a branded appellation

I walk in the carbon-monoxide mist,
The frost still gripping the broken grass
In yellow patches where a dog pissed.
The fogged glass of commuters
Push past the congested gas station
To pull into a glutted parking lot
Near the dull hum of the Bart tracks.

I have no hat
So I shrug in my wool coat
And trace the slow curve of the street.
Cars shuffle and queue
Like cows soon to be meat.
People pre-packed in their Christmas boxes
Are conveyed by this concrete rut
Butt to nose to butt
To their transport destination.

I mumble my thoughts by the frozen park.
The swings still and the tan bark
Clumps in mounds around dark patches.
Children grounded by the season
Are at home eating Cheerios near the heater vent
Bent over the bowl, cupping cold orange juice.
Sensible parents click the TV remote
And drink coffee in morning robes.

My lobes become numb
As I make my way to the bus without parental fuss
On the strip of grey tongue that unrolls like a welcome
Into the gullet of a December day

Instant Status

Isn't most of Western Society like this?

Bird Food

Poems are boorish things
Never perfect, sometimes obtuse
Requiring dictionaries
Clarifications
Loose interpretations like a sack
Caught at the end of the morning’s line
Only to be detached, examined and thrown right back

The poem is a worm
Eaten by early birds
Words placed in sequence but out of sync
In ways that make dull heads think
Or ache
Language is broken to be remade
The poem is a bastard creation

Ever since we boxed up meaning
We made experiments to shake it
Crack it
Break it into halves
Wear it like hats when we're drunk and slurring
The blur of words churning in the bowl
Maybe it would be easier to unpack feelings
And let them roll on the kitchen floor
Underfoot while we’re cooking
And when no one’s looking
We kick them squealing out the door

Poetry is for the birds
Let them pick over it on the lawn
And then before a sentence finishes
With a flap of wings like applause
It’s gone.

The Haka - An NZ educational moment

The haka is a traditional war cry of the Maori people in NZ, but it is used by NZ sports teams before matches, especially the All Blacks rugby team. It is essentially a way to rally the warriors for the battle ahead and intimidate the enemy. This link has some good background info about the haka as well as a demo to watch with the words translated into english. When you get a group of about 20 Maori with their chests bared, bugging out their eyes and stomping the ground, it's pretty darn impressive, not to mention a little scary.

Because the haka is a trademark of NZ culture, there are naturally those less sensitive countries in the commonwealth, namely England and of course Australia that make fun of it in their media. At least the English parody allows you to create your own and send it to friends. What better e-mail to send to your NZland compatriots (if you have any that is)....