Noticing Stuff

                          Weeds

Weeds are species

that grow wild

and profusely

among other species,

depriving them of space and food,

taking over their habitat,

crowding them out.

They reproduce aggressively,

and can harbour and spread

pathogens or other toxins.

Some even create environmental conditions

in which they themselves cannot reproduce.

Weeds tend to proliferate in human-disturbed areas.

Some become dominant when they enter new environments

that free them from natural enemies.

Sounds like homo sapiens –

the most virulent weed species of all.

                   How It Is, In Part

Sitting in my reading-and-drinking armchair

with the front door propped open,

I watched in fascination

as a small flock of sparrows

fought pitched battles with each other,

wings flapping with furious aggression,

contesting my bird feeder’s two perches.

These weren’t dance-like play fights;

they were serious.

Now, human aggression usually disgusts me,

but I’m completely non-judgemental

about their behaviour.

They do what they do.

It’s just DNA

and pursuing survival

in a hard world.

                 I Like To Walk

I’ve always liked to walk.

Even when I was a preschooler,

I’d skive off from time to time

to escape my unhappy domestic environment,

and follow the creek

that ran a block or so from my house,

fantasising about running away from home.

Since then I’ve walked,

whether with a dog, by myself,

or – rarely – with other people,

in many different cities,

along many rural roads and tracks,

up gentle mountain slopes,

and along many beaches – I can’t stand lying in the sun.

For me the best city walks

have been in cities with alleys –

I call it alleying –

and each city’s alleys have been different,

sometimes differing from one part of a city to another.

The best thing about alleying

is how few people

and moving motor vehicles

I’ve encountered whilst doing so.

Walking enables me to experience the seasons

and the changing skies

better than I could from any vehicle,

even a bicycle,

and to notice

such microcosms

as individual leaves and pebbles and blades of grass,

and how the volume of rubbish on the ground

increases

as my dog and I

approach

the Five Crossroads McDonald’s.

  

            Boy Fights & Girl Fights

In the mid-eighties I spent a couple of years

running the school jail –

officially In-School Suspension –

at an intermediate school

in a heart-wrenchingly downmarket area.

As ISS supervisor,

I was also the staff’s

number-two heavy – after George,

the big, beefy DP –

so one of my duties

was to help keep an eye on things

before the school opened each morning.

Poor kids fight a lot,

so George and I broke up

plenty of early-morning fights.

Fights between boys

usually involved

impressive quantities of

circling about,

bobbing and weaving,

feinting jabs, wild swings hitting only air,

and shouts of,

“Hold me back or I’ll kill him!”

and when we did hold them back they let us.

Girl fights were deadly serious.

They really did seem to be

trying to kill each other,

and even with me bear-hugging one

twelve-year-old girl from behind

and George, at 115+ kilos, fairly sitting on the other

they’d still be scratching each other’s faces

and managing to pull out

handfuls of each other’s hair.

               Visceral

It struck me

as I farted whilst I was pissing

that the smell of the inside of my body

when it’s outside of it

may not be particularly pleasant,

but is absolutely real.

             Icelandic Genetics

Iceland, or so I’ve read,

has about the most

genetically homogeneous population in the world.

Of course, I’ve read a large amount of

shit

in the many years that I’ve been reading,

but as the camera panned

along the faces of Iceland’s football team

during the national anthem

prior to a match against Croatia

(which is definitely genetically heterogeneous),

it struck me that many of them

could have been brothers,

and that they all

looked like at least close cousins,

so maybe it is indeed so.

But then,

how does Björk fit into this?

                                   Butch

I can’t recall ever knowing anybody named Butch,

whether via his – or her – birth certificate

or due to some fond family nicknaming during infancy.

I imagine, though, that being called Butch

would be likely to have an effect

on a person’s character –

or even physical competencies.

For instance, would somebody named Butch

be likely to have better-than-average fine motor skills,

and be a wizard at needlepoint or lace-making?

How many people named Butch have long hair?

I mean, one of the definitions of the word itself

refers to a particular type of short, closely cropped haircut.

Do people named Butch tend to prefer

Antiques Road Show to boxing or mixed martial arts?

Do they prefer to take their exercise

by playing rugby

or by Morris Dancing?

I don’t know, as I can’t recall

ever knowing anybody named Butch.

I myself, incidentally, am basically a wuss and totally non-macho,

but in many superficial ways I’m decidedly butch,

for whatever that’s worth.

I did know somebody, though, whose family called him Bunkie.

He was a flaming asshole.

Ended up with a career in the Army,

or so I heard.

           Think I’ll Read A Book

I turned the TV on.

As it came up

a Kiwi woman,

talking to another Kiwi woman,

said that Justin Bieber’s favourite food

is spaghetti and meatballs.

I turned the TV off.

                        Higher Education

When I was a uni lecturer it struck me and disgusted me

that most second-year students considered my courses

to be a game, the point of which was

to see how little they could learn

and how few academic and cognitive skills

they could acquire and improve

and still pass.

Many didn’t.

I wondered why they were there in the first place,

running up huge student-loan debts

for bugger-all in return.

Was it arrogance? Overconfidence? Privilege?

Or just stupidity?

                    Talent

I learnt long ago,

although not early enough,

that just because someone

can play a guitar or a piano passably,

and perhaps sing well enough

for others to tolerate or even enjoy it,

having such talent

fails to make that person automatically

not a nauseating shit.

More Dog Stuff

                 Job Description

When I drove to the puppy farm

just south of Ngaruawahia

in response to a classified ad

for cheap fox terrier puppies,

and strolled into the shed where they were,

a particularly enthusiastic ball of spotted whiteness

zoomed up to me.

I scooped the pup up

and she licked each of my ears in turn.

She had the job.

Almost eleven and a half years later,

as I was composing this verse,

whenever she got up on my lap

she still made the perfunctory gesture

of giving each ear a tiny lick –

or at least almost.

That was, after all, how she got the job,

and although she never knew

whether it really was a good thing

for her to get the damn job,

she did know that it was her job,

and she did it.

  

                               Sticks

One morning at the dog exercise park

I saw an obese young bloke,

maybe 25 or 30,

wearing skaties,

with a bland-looking sidekick.

The blob was pretending

to throw sticks into the river

so their dogs would swim out looking for them,

and he was shouting disparagingly and abusively

at the dogs

to get those nonexistent sticks.

That was a fucked-up game,

played by a fucked-up arsehole.

It failed all the reasons for playing stick,

which I know from extensive experience

over many years

are to provide exercise for both dog and human,

to provide the dog with multiple opportunities

for self-actualisation by combining with the chased object

whilst providing the human with the joy of helping it to do so,

and to provide the experience of

interspecies communication, cooperation, sharing, and trust.

The porcine shithead was chortling

with an ugly, disgusting attitude

of superiority and self-satisfaction

about his ability to fool dogs

who trusted him.

He seemed to be thinking, proudly,

that he was outsmarting them.

The sidekick said hi to me

as I walked by.

I didn’t answer.

I’m conflict-averse.

            15 August 2011, 9:15 am

For the first time ever

I wimped out at the park

and cut short the canine's excursion.

The wind chill factor was -4^o C,

we were walking into a 40 kph southwesterly with gusts,

the website told me when I got home,

of up to 56 kph, when a fine but heavy mist

started blowing into my face.

I knew it'd be folly to open the brolly,

so I turned tail and called for my dog,

who seemed to be enjoying the conditions,

to come on!

When we got home I collected the recycling bin from the kerb

and my hands felt frozen

for about ten minutes

after entering the house.

I should’ve worn my oilskin and my gardening gloves, eh?.

                         Somalis and Dogs

Living near my city’s only mosque

I also live near many Somali families.

Walking my dog around the neighbourhood

every afternoon when she was alive

I received frequent reminders

of Somalis’ less-than-positive attitudes towards dogs.

This is partly because Islam teaches that dogs are haraam, or unclean,

right up there with shit and piss and cadavers and swine,

but I think it may be more than that.

Someone told me that people used dogs as weapons

during Somalia’s 1993 civil war,

but I can’t google up any support for this,

although I’m a dab hand at googling.

Still, from time to time small Somali-Kiwi children

approached us timorously and asked,

“Mister, does your dog bite?”

And once one of those elderly Somali religious nuts

wearing a long robe – called a jellabiya,

an embroidered fez – called a koofiyad

(I just googled them up), sandals,

and a beard dyed reddish-orange with henna,

as the Prophet is supposed to have done with his,

attacked my harmless little fox terrier with his cane – jab-jab-jab!

Although I respect other people’s right to embrace

their traditional cultures and beliefs,

the old fart was lucky that she was too quick for him.

              Dog-Brain Ones and Zeros

When we hit the mouth of the driveway,

and instead of turning right,

which meant going through a bit of the hood

and then around the park,

we turned left, which meant going to Martin’s house,

at least inside my fox terrier Rhonda’s dog brain,

she became a dog on a mission.

Unlike our turn-right walkies,

she was out in front and dragging me by the lead,

and didn’t stop to sniff at something sniffable

every few metres.

Going to Martin’s house, you see,

meant stealing cat food from Martin’s cat Pepper,

something that clearly meant heaps to Rhonda.

Martin being often not at home

his house being locked up when we got there –

as had been the case the past five times as I composed this –

did nothing to reduce her keenness.

On the way back home, of course,

I had to drag her.

             Dog Farts

I know that they’re innocent

and intrinsically funny,

but when Rhonda farted

when she was on my lap

I had to shove her to the floor.

          No Embarrassment Here

I adopted a nine-year-old male dog.

He pees like a girl.

I don’t see how this constitutes a problem, though.

It certainly doesn’t bother him,

and it’s certainly no skin off my arse, either.

                          In the Balance?

A short, wiry, ragged-looking man missing most of his teeth,

his arms covered with inartistic, dangerous-looking black tattoos,

walked along the Victoria Street footpath

with a precious baby puppy – maybe six weeks old –

cradled against his chest under one arm,

its eyes closed and its face full of trust.

The man’s facial expression was much more complex.

In the moment I had to see it as we passed each other,

I received impressions of, among other things,

emotional pain, repressed violence, wavering self-control,

and a sort of defensive tenderness.

It was completely unclear to me whether

the man would eventually transfer his anger to the dog,

or allow the dog’s unconditional trust and love,

perhaps the first the man had ever experienced –

I had no way of knowing –

transfer its sweetness to him.

Imaginary People

                          Big Louie

I used to speculate

– and sometimes still do –

about what it would be like

to have my own personal servant

and, if I did,

what sort of servant I’d want to have.

An impeccable British gentleman’s gentleman?

(Perhaps named Chutney – or maybe Chives)

A talented and versatile chef?

A French soubrette maid in fishnet hose?

I decided long ago, however,

that it would be most useful

to have my own personal thug.

I imagine his name would be Big Louie.

Any time anybody ripped me off

or seriously pissed me off

– and how often do you have such experiences? –

I’d only have to snap my fingers

and he’d respond in his thick, stupid voice,

‘Which one, boss?’

Or maybe the milk of human kindness

would find its way into my veins,

and I’d explain to the offending party

that, ‘I don’t like violence,

unless it’s the kind they play with a bow,

but my associate, Mr Big Louie,

he’s not like that, y’know?’

It’s a soothing fantasy.

                        Peace and Prosperity

He lives in a comfortable, capacious home

on a safe, quiet, shady, street

where his children can play without supervision.

Unlike so many other Midwestern industrial towns,

the aura of secure, American comfort

is everywhere settled and undisturbed,

with no exceptions –

neither poverty nor decay have a toehold here.

His commute to the plant isn’t overly long,

the pay is comfortable,

and new orders are constantly flooding in.

The work there is steady,

has been since his grandfather worked there,

and seems unlikely to slow down

in any future he can imagine.

When he gets home from work

he can settle onto his La-Z-Boy,

an ice-cold beer on the table beside him,

the round-topped one that his father had made in his workshop,

and enjoy the TV news.

Especially the reports showing

young men wearing camouflage fatigues

in various blasted Mideastern and African

landscapes, towns, and cities

shooting at each other,

most of the boom-boom-booms and pop-pop-pops

representing the firing of bullets

that he’s had a hand in manufacturing,

creating the need for urgent re-orders

to replace them.

His wife will have a tuna casserole ready

when the news is over,

after the weather.

                        A Real Character

She was an affected old bird

fond of fogs of non-floral incense,

long, flowing feathery gowns,

and spending hours each day

utilising her toiletries

and applying her cosmetics.

Her hair gleamed.

She had a vague awareness of Celtic myths,

and was enamoured of all things she considered Grecian,

although repelled by that which was greek.

Her home was a repository

for a dizzying array of crystals

and polished semiprecious lapidary ornaments,

set amongst wide expanses of lace

and fringes.

She cherished her original vinyl LP albums

by the Fairport Convention, Cat Stevens, Pentangle,

and the like.

She became irate when the neighbours’ dog

would piddle in her garden,

even though she rarely went into it herself.

She did her best to speak like the Queen,

but tended to overpronounce her words.

She frequently found cause to employ tradesmen,

whom she would refer to as

‘My plumber’ or ‘My electrician’ or ‘My gardener’,

and masturbated shamelessly and promptly

after they left.

                     Missed Siesta

The colonel, grumpy and lumpy,

attended his desk

in his military-peaked hat,

as the blades of his ceiling fan

did less to cool the air

of his jungleside command centre

that was far too far from the city

than they did to mark the seconds

until the day’s siesta.

Sweat oozed down his ribs

and made his back

and the backs of his thick thighs

stick to his uniform’s khaki military textiles.

Lean and dark and gleaming,

in camouflage fatigue pants and singlet,

his sweat integral to who he was,

Ignacio didn’t give a fuck,

not about Jesus or the virgin

or Padre Narciso’s right and wrong,

not even about Citizen Mario’s

ideology of liberation.

The colonel’s men

had tortured his father

and raped his sister.

Ignacio led the barrage

of automatic-weapon fire

from the front,

allowing himself no emotion,

but crying the whole time nonetheless.

The colonel never enjoyed

the chicken mole

his housekeeper had prepared

for his pre-siesta dinner.

                             Perfection

It wasn’t her dad who’d had the money, or not for long;

her dad had been inoffensive,

too shy and deferential to be a successful salesman,

much too much in love with books and booze.

The money had come from her dad’s brother,

a mean-spirited and predatory dickhead,

who’d scragged a fortune screwing legions of people over

before one of them shot him in the head

as he ate wild venison at a footpath table

in front of some upmarket café-style café.

Her dad, being his brother’s sole heir,

had binged on real French champagne

and fifteen-year-old Irish whisky

for three days before falling to his death down a flight of stairs.

Her mum had shot through to Australia

years before with a glib New Age huckster,

so she was her dad’s sole heir.

She tried travel, clothes, and food,

but this combination failed to satisfy her.

Fulfilment announced itself to her at last

in the way of a plasterer named Nigel

who worked on the bay windows

– as she supervised the renovation of her uncle’s 1960s mansion –

without his shirt on.

After Nigel she found no shortage

of firm-muscled young tradesmen willing to have a go

with a fleshy rich woman

who knew how to spend up a good time,

well into her old age.

People who thought it unseemly could go fuck themselves.

She couldn’t imagine improving on her situation.

                     It’s A Hell Of A World

Okay, so he’d had a sheltered upbringing,

his shoes always shined, his clothes always pressed;

he learnt to use the correct forks and spoons

and never to lift a one of them

till his mother had brought all the food to the table

and had sat down and begun eating herself;

his parents had answered his biological queries

with vague abstractions and metaphors

that he hardly understood at all,

and used the words for human emotions

without displaying examples of them for him to emulate.

He learnt to revere the daintiness and social power

of the human females in his narrow little life,

and never to say words his mother disliked.

He also learnt everything his parents’ religion had to teach

without going overboard into the religious life.

Still, once he finally entered the world,

he should have been ready

to take the inevitable surprises in stride,

and not leapt, horrified,

from his conjugal bed on his wedding night,

shouting that he wanted an annulment

just because he’d never known before

that ladies fart.

                     Proving Manhood

He was raised by an ambitious auntie

who enjoyed dominating for its own sake,

didn’t give a shit about anybody but herself,

and demanded that he do all the housework.

He had enormous ears that stuck out from his head,

was short and pudgy and awkward, shitty at sports,

and not much better at school.

He found a job locating and fetching crap

in the warehouse of some online retailer.

It wasn’t bad; he could dream his way through the days

and escape into the TV when he got home,

but he never found a girlfriend,

and the years slipped by.

He eventually answered a sex ad

and took his saved-up money

to a budget motel room,

where a dark-skinned woman – a girl, actually –

with an angry face and a South Asian accent

opened the door and took his money

without a smile and with barely a word.

Dizzy with the idea that this was It at last,

he began undressing.

She stripped quickly and lay back on the bed, scowling.

‘I won’t suck your dick,’ she said,

but you can lick me if it’ll help you.’

She clenched her teeth.

He looked at her with his entire cosmos behind his eyes

and replied, ‘If you hate it so much why do you do it?’,

then put his clothes back on

and left.