what he must
my father
left his job
as a linesman
for the telephone company
where he’d worked
for many years,
so he could concentrate
on drinking
fulltime.
but I
harbour no grudges or
feelings of ill-will.
each man
does what he must
to survive,
be it
through
gambling,
chasing women,
fishing,
writing poems or
drinking.
a giant of a man
i met Ali
a few years ago when
he visited Australia.
a giant of a man, still; i’m 6-2
but he towered over me.
we talked for a few minutes
in the foyer of the
Sheraton Hotel;
just small talk, his voice
slow but compelling.
he was humble and
heartbreakingly human.
when it came time
to leave he placed
one of his huge hands
on my shoulder and
tapped it a few times.
it was a casual but
warm gesture, and reminded me
of the famous lecture on
solidarity he delivered
at Harvard university
in 1972, when a kid asked
for a concluding poem,
and Ali needed to think
for only a few seconds
before pointing to himself,
then at the audience,
and announcing, “Me, we.”
it just may be be the
best poem ever written.
Another One To
Gather Dust on the Shelf
On the recommendation
of many famous
writers including Charles
Bukowski and
William S. Burroughs,
I've tried several
times reading
Celine's "Journey
to the End of the Night",
always finding it,
however,
simply a journey
too far.
The Neighbours
We nearly always had
terrible neighbours
on Warral Road –
various families came
and went
to the house next door
but few of them were
ever what you’d call
civilised –
mostly they were thieves
or else drunks or addicts
of every description,
with big, savage dogs
and equally savage
friends in rusted out cars.
To get by you just
kept your head down,
avoided eye contact and
most important of all –
always locked up tight when
you went out anywhere.
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