Huka Falls

Waikato invites

the wanderer
to wonder

after Oruanui’s
majestic
outpour.

Hukanui.

turbulence
climbs the narrow gorge,
the dense foam
shifts,
slides,
pulling and pushing
through the acid
volcanic
rock.

i stand
on the bridge,
looking down,
taking in
the sublime
magnitude of that
milky blue
stain.

Huka Falls.

nature’s beauty
made into
tour bus fare.

it has taken
one day
and a half
for us to
get to this point.
via Aratiatia
after the yellow
belch of Rotorua.

and here
the black war
looms.
the hostile
treads through my
head and
i hear its
roar.

and now,
you are gone.
and now,
you are long
lost
in the green
hay grass

by Huka Falls.

bilingue

a horn sounds in the mission
waking the morning up,

as
the men go to sit in the streets
waiting,

on césar chavez,
on Harrison,
by the Salvo.

as
the women go to look after kids
that aren’t theirs.

their parents wanting to save,
and like the idea
d’être

Bilingue.

Bilingual, like the
neighbourhood itself

mixing and diversifying

the real mission
from
the fake mission.

the artists and the poets
think it is oh so hip

d’être
une partie
de la communauté.

all the while--



a horn sounds in hayes valley
waking the afternoon up.

in hayes valley,
in the marina,
in SOMA,

as
ladies and gents
with
more money than sense

ignore the reality,
of any given situation.

in favour
of good fun,
designer clothing,
spending each meal.

they favour,
a Cosmo over a Tequila;
they favour,
Armani over the Salvo;
they favour,
Chevys over Taquería Cancun.

they walk in their heels

as
the people in the streets are stepped over,
by these, their wealthier neighbours

but deep down they know
it’s their city too.

they know
they are
Bilingual.


a horn sounds in the mission,
waking the evening up.

as
the kids
in bright clothes

leave their
fancy loft apartments
head off to the bars
to defina

as
the families sit down
to eat,

grandmother
with grandchild,

their flauntas,
their papusas.


i know i don’t even
begin
to understand

the complexity

of this situation.

i know that this
may
be the most

naïve thing

you’ve ever heard.

i know that i’m
an
outsider

looking in
at the thousands
of residents
of this insane city.

in this city
in this country.

i know that i’m
a
foreigner

a green card holder
through
luck,
and a failed marriage.

but still

i feel as though

i bilingue

(though maybe that’s just
a fallacy).

but --
anyway --

whether its right or its wrong

i can spend a hour
of my time

marking

a sight/site

or two.

sf haiku

Old hippie, balding,
Redoes ponytail string in
Record store window.

i walked with a zombie

felt that air on my face
and the palm wine on your breath,

the okra is good,
but the pepper soup is so much better,

i can sense you my spirit child
you want to be so free

reeking havoc on the very people
that have led to your doom.

The island by the city

away from soulless city searching

on landing shore empty shells

create wonder to wandering eyes

before tongariro walking on volcanic crunch

before the bitter limerock of priest spa

before sulphuric ochre whispers past

the native is trapped on domain drive.

we visited twice the suffocated marae

he taonga Maori and performers “experience”.

cement meant to soar by westward eyes

sweat and work creating falseness

a world reduced to pleasing visiting crowds.

we seek the spiritual taha wairua

even though we do not know it yet.

me and he we tred lightly from the boat

leaves brush our legs; soft rustling greens

unencountered I stop to

smell,
touch,
taste

the sweetness of waiheke

as breeze passes upward laughing

making peace with the world; pleasure

surroundings finally greet us as pepper

and glassy berries tingle touching lips.

sitting down watching pastoral meets local

-- glocal --

leaves of the vine
thousands of lives

and the aquamarine circles us

as the wind flag pauses and sways

channelling hope, accepting the past.

together you teach of aotearoa

the beat ships onto the island by the


city