Thorn (March)

Nice cool morning, ideal for planting correa, grevillea… Time to get grounded, clearing away dead branches when a long sharp thorn goes straight into the heel of my hand. Blood rushes out, dark red. It fucking well hurts. To say bloody well hurts is understatement. Hunting inside for Elastoplast it’s a Good Friday meditation. Handy knowledge to have if you want to hurt someone, bleeding won’t stop, straight to the vein. Imagine a crown of them, tied around the head to show who’s boss. Unforgivable, really, humiliating. Band-aid on I return to planting little trees, such a beautiful March morning. 

Frequency (March)

The equinoxes and lunar cycle are observable patterns. Moves to regularise the date of Easter will not happen in anyone’s lifetime. For these reasons Maundy Thursday sometimes falls in March. This morning’s voiceover on the No. 96 to St. Kilda Beach introduced a new word to Public Transport Speak. ‘Trams will operate according to a Sunday frequency on Good Friday. On Easter Monday trams will operate according to a Saturday frequency.’ Instead of timetable we now have frequency. This doesn’t inspire confidence. It reminded me of this morning’s online weather report, with promise of showers ‘less likely’ in the afternoon.

Device (March)

We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have put them ahead of our attention to others. Our children stoop over their devices in search of distraction that flees with each new grab. Cyclists on their cycles affix devices to the handles of their desire and cannot see their neighbour hit them sorely at intersection, even unto death. Trees gaze up to heaven but we do not. Our streets are crooked with bent peoples in March heat laying complaint through their devices to others of similar desire and there is no health in us.

Productivity (March)

‘The March of Time’ is a Victorian anthem sung in romantic strain to the monument Productivity. Verses proclaim asylum seekers drown at sea or go Pacific for Productivity. Sun dries us and seas engulf (the rhymes are anachronisms) in deification of Productivity. Coral will pale and coals glow forever thanks be Productivity. Mandarins present noble leaders with one thousand flowers blooming Productivity. Indigenous don’t get it, Productivity. Mixed chorales perform ‘The March of Time’ at ceremonies and moves are afoot to make it the national song, though unproductive minorities continue to vote for ‘Waltzing Matilda’ and ‘Friday On My Mind’.

Unfriend (March)

Why friend? It’s random. Everyone else does. Love. Contact my family. Avoid my family. Share the view. Indulge in bad puns. Impress those already impressed. Time management strategy. Show off my breakfast. Flagrant self-promotion. Flagrant introspection. Birds of a feather click together. Camera-happy. It’s my own personal TV station. Style. Compulsion. Why unfriend? Their politics, I had no idea. Their smart aleck comments. Their posts make no sense. They actually talk to that idiot Whatsit. Bewilderment. It’s March. They seem to have dropped off. Ennui. They prove to be bad TV. A makeover, though I’m still just me. Style. Compulsion.

Key (March)

When not shopping for products you start looking instead at the people. Dazed parents inspect nifty furniture children crunch in weeks. Ladies are tempted by lightbulbs that only match fittings above the Arctic Circle. Ikea is like that, a fantasyland of paper tape-measures and words unpronounceable with angstroms. Teenagers test all the chairs. Tradesfolk question modal effectiveness of Allen Key variations. Never were so many balsa reindeer gathered under one roof. Breezy women at checkout zap kitchenware barcodes. All afternoon at the service area indefatigable Vietnamese boys help load product into cars: a fun job but for this March heat. 

Catch (March)

“Dropped catches lose matches” was Mr. Wenzel’s rule for the school team. Latin teacher, his dictum had the pith of Cicero. March, non-finalists’ laidback end of the season. Walking under river gums at oval’s edge we watch them scoot fours into grass. Bails fly, teammates howzat and gather. Hunker down again for next delivery, as though heatwave, like climate change, is hearsay. A close shave in gully. I remember Mother’s weekly phonecall news, “…oh and old Wenzel died last week.” Never the cricketer in the family but I held the hit, my response the impromptu obituary, “Dropped catches lose matches.”

Back (March)

Straight back on train seat. Reading not working, eyes turn to passing backyards. Two types, roughly. Unlived-in is hard. Brickwork for run-off. Disused basketball hoop. Grassy untrimmed weeds. Clothes hoist and satellite dish, a domestic Jeffrey Smart. Water tank wilderness. Renovated squalor. Concrete block. The lived-in ones, more my thing. Italian orchard with platforms of vegetables. Fence of stratocumulus bougainvillea. Dappled teacups on wrought-iron seat. Sight of the living’s good. Woman on decking looks at her phone for weather. Man ‘waters’ March lemon-tree. Pigeons peck rooftops. Cat paws face. And so back to reading, the thread of the plots, joining.

Rap (March)

The dinted old No.1 tram crunkles on its curve past the mature gallery, down South Melbourne decline. Two twenty-somethings clamber on, create studio space on sun-filled back seats. Eager, they rap into their gadgets. One sets a fast monotony drum, over which the other raps text into his oblong, oblivious to Victorian back streets. He talks New York in broad Australian: it will come into relief on playback. Old shade trees of Albert Park take March heat. No.1 manoeuvres another bend. 20+ runs out of rhymes for ‘money’ and they laugh, playing with urban forms, readying for the next take.