Heldigvis er det alltid noe i veien

THE RAFT 2021

first there was
a piece of the moon
scrambled about in the yard

no, a meteorite landed
small as it was
in my shoe

stuck
to the beneath

stuck making me painfully aware of the gods and universes
those big measures of our existence
beneath my foot
now

painfully aware that day of what summer was giving
what summer was bringing
a year where no plan told
no figure worn
no goal attended to, or

despite
I make myself a labyrinth of thoughts and
bushes in the yard
something to entertain myself in the days of dear,
dire
straight

boredom in the years of summer
boredom in my days of winter
boredom in my days of not recollecting the moments I enjoyed
or any moments at all

memory fails me
memory fails me in every attempt
at redeeming it
from cavitites within

sometimes my knees remember better
the pain I inflicted
or someone inflicted
upon me

what part plays memory
what memory part plays
in my distinctive flavour
for the one or the other?

I move a chest of drawers across the room
they scrape the floor with the sound of a trumpet

I hang up a light in the middle of the room
it makes no noise
but lights equally the floor beneath

now, who would be mistaken
if they thought the sound was part of the light
darkness seems to swallow it
even if you hear it
it is not
here

no obstacle to, no obstacle to recall
I see a cloth
the cloth is on the ground
the cloth is on the ground
the cloth has on it the foods from another day
and these geometric shapes
pulled out of existence
in white or grey
pulled out of hands in shapes

I draw a line between a figure and another
on it, a face appears, and I see
whom I might of met
in dreams or childhood
I see the weary face of a stranger
looking as if from the outside
of our lives

I see a way
a wing
a winged flap
I see a way out

I see a cliff one has to jump
to fly away from what now seems inevitable
I see a boat getting untied from a pier
its force shoooting it of from the pier
as if leaving it
as if it never really held on to it at all
but was constanly being pulled by the waves
the movements of water

now, open seas
what do they believe
what hides benath or above
do I dare speculate, or, indeed, do I, need I
speculate at all?

there is wind
there is air, there is hair
there are my hands in salty water
there are the sounds of the passing seagull
a wave crushes towards wave
there is the sense of all the piers
that might have been visited before
theres a sense of all the places seen
and my face getting worn
by salt and sun

my dreams about all people known
not now seen

for breakfeast I eat whatever I want
grapefruit
an egg
a piece of bread and butter

at lunch I have a big meal
I put up a table
and in the cabin I find, from someone who must have lived there before
a big red jug
with which to pour whatever one drinks
in cups
or mugs
or glasses
I put it on the table alongside
breads, hats and butter
I put it on the table alongside figures
nonfigurative, or?
I put it on the table alongside memories
plates and dreams
I put it on the table alongside
salt
pepper
eggs
bowls
cups
cards
figures
hands
I put it on the table alongside all the other dishes
I might have made
salads
teas
the greens, the greys
the earls
the yellows
I put my finger on the accelerator
go fast while I eat
slower while I drive

after finishing the table
I remove it
put it away
slide it in a nice pocket
beneath the deck

now, what’s left of the feast
are crumbs on deck
and smells of old cheese and herbs
the boat now moving easier
drifting comfortably along
maybe my corpse now feels it, more comfortably
beings as it were
satisfied

I move inside
cabin awaits in its heat and smell
the sounds of things clicking towards wood
the metals, singing
the woods, thumping
the waves, hushing
my heart licking
the salt

what would I do if I sat down
stared out my cabin window
where would I be
if I stared out?