within, we exist
tightly bound
by our intellect
somewhere in there
the drive to be
(and its reverse,
to not-to-be)
await our consciousness.

Illusionists, scientists waiting for the bell
Market criers, oyez
Drama dog show queens, little walks of shame
Hog washers, bulls in pits, and those bought to their knees
by unpaved promises
There are cracks—always—in any argument, in any agreement
Nowhere is safe from intrusion
Arranging furniture may be the hardest task of all

is that what we are all about?
is the ultimate in torpor
to answer the invisible call
of consciousness
with structure
such as words
and geography
and hot dogs
in a summer
no game
in front
all truth
is that you knocking?

I think I thank you
We buy we sell we buy we sell we build
We grow ever upwards with your words
We cross and touch and hint and trust is a truss

without another word
i did not find it weird
i blamed it on "...Godot"
'cause really,
she had been waiting
a long time
(i presumed)
and so had I

No necessity to worry about freight trucks, lawyers
Long invitations, bullets, butt creeks of skyline, fancy
Poodles, prominent citizens, alarmists, marigold
Parties and humorists waiting for the fall…

No such man no such man

A few days of doors of affairs of only what-what
the devil do you know of my business
of dealing through clarity, shears, cardigans
and the land that is no good
I heard these words


why, I haven’t heard you sing,
she said, but what did she know,
it was, step by step,
just another walk,
just another construction
of juxtaposed feet
each step a unit never measured before,
never to be seen again, the legs
slowly spinning cumulative waves
of experience that lead
towards the deconstruction
of the very events we celebrate
slowly I turn
towards the unknown
blackness of a future,
here, touch my hand

There was no such hand the hand with the man

is that yesterday or today?


© 2010, poetry by Jane Ormerod and Wil Wynn