rush hour

the world comes together at twilight;
day seaming shut, sun bleeding into a pool
and at the edges, the gentle assertiveness of stars.
but the traffic makes us forget.
overcome by lightshows from the other amnesiacs, the mind spills over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.

Red robot, our evening star.
brake light, clutch, brake, stop, de-gear.

and for a moment, look out the window and the soul breathes.

and coughs.
your spirit-kin gripping dirty cardboard, calling out for God to bless you.
your wet-soap eyes slip through, you can’t afford the awkward connection, and your pupils find a point just beyond the lazy bum who cracks your heart a little before you steel it once again.
and there, is the little girl.
with the whole wide world speeding around her, their minds spilling over with the detritus of the day and the recurring comfort of Home.
And she looks to the moon, her cardboard held high, a waving fan, brushing against the stars she is, jumping up, flapping wings, chasing at the fireflies above.
something almost pulls, come out and play.
almost.

Green robot.
clutch, accelerator.
Go.

Of things we sometimes imagine

the box on the shelf
with the black-penned Possibility
has a lid that won’t close
for
yesterday’s thinkings
and tomorrow’s
procrastinations
clutter

and never lie flat.

in it is the house i’d build
and fill with his favourite things.

he’d laugh,
for he hasn’t seen the butter-flour apron
beneath the ink of my liberal jeans,

but there I’ll be;
a smile in his kitchen
and one for when he’d wake,

between my work with words
and the song of sunrise
sweeping outside the front door.

buddy talk

I’ve been your friend since you puked up on me in grade school, I can tell you this. You buddy, make roadkill look attractive.

-Sheesh, I know i’m not the best looking guy around…

Well, thank God you don’t harbour any of those delusions.

-But she only wants to marry me because of the money.

A woman’s gotta love you for something. Be grateful.

Alfred at No 30, Streetview Terrace.

There was another crazy person at the door.

This one had a pink plastic garden flamingo in a sleeper embrace under his right arm, while he authoritively left-palmed a faux-cheetahfur bound filofax. Looking very much like a sunday morning tv-evangelist with a god-struck devotee and a well-thumped bible, Alfred thought, squinting cautiously through the peekhole.

Yesterday’s one was an attractive brunette wearing electric-blue Manolohs. Continue reading Alfred at No 30, Streetview Terrace.

Jim at the licensing department

Jim van de Vuuren wears a really bad toupee. Probably the worst artificial hairpiece to have ever been manufactured. Jim appears ignorant of this. Jim is a loud man, direct, maybe even rude.
Jim tends to gesticulate extravagantly, palms often flung out as if to indicate how weighty the world is upon him.
Jim believes himself to be an important man, if it weren’t for him, the drivers’ licensing department would crumble into insignificant iotas.
Even though Jim’s sphere of influence extends no more beyond that of the mandatory eye-testing, yes, Randfontein would be sorrier without his dedication.
He has an eye for the ladies, yes, Jim does. He likes the young, nervous ones, first-timers, floundering with their applications. He likes to think himself a good man then, almost benevolent, when he overlooks their failure to make out some of the checkered boxes while they peer into the eye-testing machine. While they sit, eyes manacled to the black plastic, Jim stands close, sometimes stroking their hair during the test. He likes the feel of feminine silkiness and the residual softness of shampoo.