Jisei – death poems and daily reflections by a person with AIDS.

Here are the main texts from my book “JISEI”.




(poetry and short texts in journal format)


My first public performance of my poetry in New York City was at a trendy art gallery in the SoHo district, back in 1986. The place was packed, wall-to-wall, and the audience was enthusiastic. I was reading from my soon-to-be-published first book of poems, entitled “Notes of a Madman” which was an illustrated collection of mystical poetry from Pagan and Sufi traditions. The gallery owner, an enigmatic young man, was particularly obsessed with the poems and spiritual messages in the slender volume of verse, and he read the book over and over again. Some months after the reading I again called the gallery to say “hello” and another young man answered the phone, saying in a somber voice: “Didn’t you know? He passed away shortly after your reading.” He had died of AIDS.

That beautiful young man hung onto my verse in a time of deep personal transformation. I have never forgotten the awe and sense of responsibility I felt after that telephone conversation. Since then, I have always written and painted with the intent of inspiring creativity and transformation in humanity. And now that I have — myself — lived with the AIDS virus for twenty years it feels appropriate to inspire once again through writing about one of the greatest transformations Mankind can ever know. It does not matter what we die of … every Soul and Life Expression is precious, and to be celebrated.

I die (and I am reborn) just a little bit each day of my life. Should any given moment be my last, then my epitaph will surely be the sum of all my thoughts, poems and tears of joy and sorrow … from day to day, over the course of eternity. Perhaps just one of these short daily poems will touch upon a few readers and lend a bit of realization of the magic that each of us creates in our personal and collective transformations.

– Adam Donaldson Powell



(epic poetry in journal format, up until the twentieth anniversary of my AIDS-infection, in 2013).



February 11, 2013.

The sun is setting, and there is a
rush of wings as birds scatter
when I open the veranda door.
One watches the bird feeder
from a nearby tree, hoping
that nightfall never arrives.

February 12, 2013.

A mere embankment of pills
holds back the raging sea,
forever threatening to consume me.
I reach out towards a life raft
but it is an illusion.
Life is a stupor.

February 13, 2013.

A chilling breeze
nips at my tired feet
but the deafening silence
numbs the pain.

February 14, 2013.

Ahhhh …
Tonight this dervish shall
embrace the Wine Seller,
and dance
in the flames of drunkenness
with my Lover.

February 15, 2013.

¿Mi último deseo?
Una botella de vino tinto y
un tango que nunca termina …
una noche sin lágrimas
y sueños interrumpidos.

February 16, 2013.

Attention, attention !
Les portes du métro se sont fermées et
il n’y a pas de sortie
et pas d’arrivée
au-delà de la vacuité.

February 17, 2013.

qaddasa Allahu sirrahu
I too smell the perfume, Master,
and I am not far behind you.
We shall soon kneel together
within the joyous breaths
of ecstatic sleep.
alif … dal … mim …
Verily, I am … Adam.

February 18, 2013.

Ingen solnedgang for meg, takk.
Jeg vil reise til sjøs i vakre flammer …
midt på formiddagen.


February 19, 2013.

a heavy evening snowfall
weighs my eyelids down.
you see bleakness;
while I rejoice in the
comfort of the refreshing
blanket of purity.
but you are right, Robert:
it is all but a dream,
and I shall soon awaken.

February 20, 2013.

bulles …
qui naviguent …
allant au-delà des nuages …
porter un toast au champagne …
à ma mémoire …
mais surtout …
à mon arrivée à bon port …
à la maison.

February 21, 2013.

I’m coming, Baby!
We’re gonna put on a dance
never before seen by our
fellow souls on the other side.
Two lights shining brighter
than Sirius, and exploding with Love.
I’m coming, Baby!
Pull out those cha-cha heels …
‘cuz I tell you:
I’m coming!

February 22, 2013.

La Recoleta está tranquila,
especialmente en un día lluvioso.
Pero si pones tu oído cerca de la lápida
donde está Evita — se puede escuchar
una banda tocando alegremente,
y voces instando a todos
a dejar de llorar …
y unirse a la fiesta.
¿Lo oyes?

February 23, 2013.

Du gjorde det på den norske måten:
en tur i skogen som var
alt annet enn uskyldig,
og med ingen retur planlagt.
Jeg sørget i lang tid,
men jeg innser nå at
jeg kjenner deg igjen
i meg selv.

February 24, 2013.

I recently read on the internet
that the odds of dying on the
same day you were born are
(adjusting for February 29th, of course):
(365 x 16/2134521) + 1/2134521 = 0.00273644531958224.

Or to put it another way 1/365.437596302003.

The odds are thus much better than those
of winning the Lotto.

Sigh …
I think I will, perhaps,
die just a little bit —
each and every day —
and be pleasantly surprised by
the sudden jackpot.

February 25, 2013.

Dear Azsacra,
Life … Death …
Что, черт возьми!
It is all Emptiness.


February 26, 2013.

辞世 ( jisei ) — okay, yes …
but about natural death or
切腹 ( seppuku ) ?
… or even 追腹 ( oibara )
… ?

how big is my Ego, really?


February 27, 2013.

Écoutez le silence.
Il y a l’énergie du vide
qui aspire lentement la vie
hors de l’environnement.
Une par une,
toutes les entités
disparaissent … et bientôt
ne laissant que notre respiration.
Il finit par cracher
et s’arrête,
juste avant
les douze coups de midi.

February 28, 2013.

if this were a leap year,
I would probably dream
of having an extra day …
not to extend my life,
but to be tidy about
the calendar.
it makes sense to
let go of the neuroses,
compulsions and
obsessions on the
last day of the month.
n’est-ce pas ?

March 1, 2013.

It’s a damned shame.
My best friend’s birthday, and
I pick today for my getaway.
I know I should be writing
about romantic sunsets,
cloudbursts, Winter’s onset,
wilting lotus blossoms, and
what not … but I cannot help
but feel a little guilty.
It’s a damned shame.
It may scar her special day for life.
But what can I do?
It is out of my hands.
Should I let her know, or
just sneak out the back door?
She will feel pain no matter what …
It’s a damned shame.
Goddamned sunset …

March 2, 2013.

I know without a doubt that
I am going to die soon …
perhaps even tonight.
You see, yesterday
I got so many comments
about how fantastic I look;
about the translucent glow
emanating from my face,
my sparkling eyes
and my sense of restfulness and
inner peace. You know,
all the qualities we assume
just before we …
(I know, don’t say it).
I have laid out my outfit,
and fixed my hair and face.
I think I will take a little nap.


Thank God I do not have to worry
about my passport or ticket
on this journey.
I simply love playing “Camille” …
at least once a week.

March 3, 2013.

There is no way
I am going to let those
bitches and hypocrites steal
my last crowning performance,
with their exaggerated and
half-made-up stories
about things I was supposed to
have said and done.
No, Blanche …
I have decided that
I am coming back —
to direct both
my funeral and my wake!

March 4, 2013.

At my deathbed,
my dear friend Scaramouche
tried to convince me that
life is a conundrum,
and therefore has no ending.
I thought to counter that
conundrums are usually absurd …
but, of course,
I was too late.

March 5, 2013.

Three times I motion for you
to lean in a little bit closer,
as you struggle to hear my
faintly-whispered “last words”.
Finally, when your mouth is
close enough for me to steal
some of your precious breath,
I close my eyes in contentment
and croak: “It was nothing …
really …”

March 6, 2013.

All my life you called me a
romantic fool, and ridiculed
my belief in angels.
And I — in turn — humoured your
skeptical rants and rationality.
But now, as you weep at the foot
of my bed, I find it miraculous that
you neither see nor feel the presence
of the Angel of Death who is
standing right beside you.

March 7, 2013.

Ohhh, my God! It really is true:
my whole life is like …
spinning, in review,
as I lie here —
helplessly, mind you.
Wow, this is like so kewl!!!
I must really be on my way back
to the Divine Source.


Hey, wait a minute!
This feels more like a carousel
gone out-of-control.


It must be the alcohol …

March 8, 2013.

          空虚 …

              人生 …

                  エイズ …

                      恥 …

                          切腹 …

                              死 ….

                                  空虚 …

March 9, 2013.

bourreau … si séduisant.

je suis tombé amoureux …
je suis fasciné …
je suis obsédé …

avec la corde …
avec le néant …
avec ma mort …

( mon véritable amour … de toujours )

March 10, 2013.

Sing me to sleep, Mommy.

Never mind that it ain’t natural
for a parent to outlive one’s child.

Just hold me, and cradle me …
like you did when I was an infant.

Sing me to sleep, Mommy.

(I will always be your baby.)


March 11, 2013.

Every time I decide to die —
on any given day,
there is always someone
who asks: “What if
everything seems different,
and better tomorrow?
What if you miraculously
get totally healed,
or win the lottery … or even
fall in love? Wouldn’t it then
be a shame if you had not
stuck around to enjoy it?!!”
These are, of course, often
the same persons that prescribe
staying in bed until noon, or
doing something “fun”, as
a cure for chronic depression.
And then there are those who
condemn all who choose not
to suffer here on this prison planet
until the bitter end … no matter what:
“Who are YOU to get an ‘easy way out’
when the rest of us follow the rules
and accept the daily consequences?”
To these moralists, we who suffer
in life have ourselves to thank for
our troubles; and those of us that
choose not to suffer in order to learn
are hopeless sinners that will either
rot in hell, be punished in the afterlife
or … in the least … bring shame
upon our families for years to come.
Sometimes I think that the only
worse Hell than the one I myself create
is perhaps the Collective Hell that
sets the parameters for life (and death)
on this unforgiving planet.
Enough! Stop the world …

    I want off.

March 12, 2013.

Trato de ignorar el zumbido del teléfono —
tan incesante … y desesperado.

Ya conozco tus palabras:
“Me preguntaba si aún estabas muerto …
¿Hay algo que pueda hacer para ayudarte?
!Ay Caramba! … Perdona mi torpeza.
(Quiero decir: ¿hay algún cambio
desde hace una hora?)”

Tú sabes: no puedo contestar el teléfono
porque no puedo cuidarte nunca más.
Ahora no.

Un día lo entenderás.

March 13, 2013.

In hushed remarks before the funeral,
it is whispered that I died of AIDS …
which is a damned lie. But it is an easy
lie to tell — much easier than saying
that I died of exhaustion and frustration
after fighting for the rights of persons
with HIV/AIDS for twenty years …
often alone, and even in opposition to
individuals and organizations mostly
concerned with personal fame or
receiving maximum public funding.
And much easier than explaining
that my body simply gave out
after years of harmful AIDS drugs,
some of which resulted in bouts
of depression, anxiety and
suicidal tendencies.
Easier as well than mentioning
the stress from years of being
shunned by employers, friends,
relatives and potential lovers
(both gay and straight).
No, I did not die of AIDS.
I simply got worn out from
trying to live in a world
divided into winners and losers.
But make it easy on yourselves …
call it AIDS, and tell the world
that I brought it upon myself.
March 14, 2013.

I hardly ever go to funerals anymore …
and I may not even have one myself.
For a person with AIDS, going to funerals
is a lifestyle thing … especially for those
of us that became infected before the
“miracle drugs” came about.

We buried friends and lovers in
droves, and shed many crocodile tears
at funerals – both for those that had
succumbed to the mysterious virus, and
out of fear for our own inevitable demise.
When first diagnosed, I was told that I had
ten years to live – at most.

Eventually the advent of “miracle drugs”
promised to extend my life, and I had to
“undo” all plans and thoughts of dying …
at least put them on hold, and consider
trying to reconstruct parts of my Life.

The new reality was short-lived as I
saw that friends continued to die.
Some had started on the new drugs
all too late, and others eventually
began to die — both in spite of the drugs,
and more recently because the so-called
“miracle drugs” had dangerous side-effects
that their already-weakened bodies could
not manage for several decades.

So … I am used to death and dying.
I have been dying for twenty years now.
It is a lifestyle … it is a part of me.
And it is easy to romanticize the final
release from uncertainty and suffering.

In fact, we are all dying,
from the moment we are born.
But not many of us hold this in our
conscious thoughts – every day,
for years on end.

I truly understand those that take
their own lives when they first get
the diagnosis. AIDS is a prison existence;
a fight for survival that is measurable not
so much in years as in how we use the
dis-ease of consciousness to advance
spiritually, and to prolong our renommé
as humanoids through activism, literature
or the arts.

It is no great feat to die,
but to live as a “walking dead person”
for decades requires strength, courage …
and a large measure of stubbornness.

Yes, I know The Grim Reaper … quite well.
We have an agreement, but only He
holds the timepiece.

March 15, 2013.

Valium, a good Italian red wine,
Léo Ferré on the speakers – singing
poetry of Rimbaud and Verlaine,
set to easy jazz; and a tasty dinner
that is well outside the confines of
my strenuous dietary regime.
It is the perfect set-up for dying,
but I know that I will not die today.
The snow is falling too heavily, and
the birds have become quite aggressive
with their visits to the bird feeder.
It is a time to become “fat” in preparation
for leaner times … it is a time to enjoy
the temporality of being safely packed in
with pillows of soft snow; new-fallen
and pure white.
I know that I will not die today …
Tomorrow I may regret the extra calories
and the hangover, while I struggle through
my five-day-a-week gym workout – which
is essential to managing the aches and pains.
But today, I rejoice in not giving a damn
about death and dying …
No, today — I will not die.
Today, I will give the concept of quality of Life
a more poetic meaning.

March 16, 2013.

Je ne fais aucun reproche
à la personne qui m’a infecté,
car j’ai moi-même
participé à ce jeu délétère.

Mais cette bande d’idiots
qui ont exploité mon statut
de malade, quelle déception!

Mon dernier souffle,
mes dernières pensées …
iront à ces êtres rares
qui comptaient pour moi,
ils étaient dix à peine.

March 17, 2013.

(original English version)

please don’t ask me how I am;
you can’t really expect
me to be any different
than I was yesterday.
we’re all really quite normal —
me, myself and I, and in
spite of our narcotic state can
be up and down simultaneously.
and don’t look at me too long;
I despise those “I know
how you must be feeling
eyes” and concerned tone.
why must you always misconstrue
the way my gaze avoids yours?
my anti-social disposition is
intended to protect you from us.
no — it doesn’t help to
speak slowly, pronouncing
each word with the sweetened
diction of a nun or nurse.
I honestly can’t tell you how to
act, for I have trouble enough
getting us to agree about
how we’ll shield you from me.
it’s really best to let me volunteer,
lest my unbridled demons unleash
their flame-throwing dragons to singe
the delicate threads of your own ego.
and you, so footloose, must avoid looking
back into the darkness whose glittering
maze of mirrors encaptures those who poke
their noses where they don’t belong.
go ahead — ask me how I am …

(Spanish version)

Por favor, no me pregunte cómo estoy;
usted no puede esperar
que yo esté muy diferente
de lo que estaba hasta ayer.
Todos estamos bien, normal –
yo, mí y yo mismo, y debido
además, a nuestro estado
podemos estar simultáneamente bien o mal.
No me mire fijo, le recomiendo;
yo detesto esos ojos de “Yo sé
como se siente … ”
y el tonito preocupado.
¿Por qué todos siempre malinterpretan
el modo en que mi mirada evita la suya?
Mi disposición antisocial es
para proteger a todos de nosotros.
No – no ayuda
hablarme despacio, pronunciando
cada palabra con el dulce tono
de una enfermera o niñera.
Honestamente no puedo decir
cómo actuar,
ya tengo bastantes problemas
tratando de ponernos de acuerdo
entre nosotros.
Sobre cómo protegerlo de nosotros.
Realmente lo mejor es dejarme ser un voluntario,
y permitir que mis demonios salvajes se suelten
y a sus dragones de lenguas llameantes hacer arder
los hilos delicados de su propio ego.
Y usted, tan descuidado, evite mirarme
cuando me vaya de nuevo a la oscuridad
cuya brillante masa de espejos captura
a los que meten su nariz en lo que no les importa.

Déle, déle, pregúnteme cómo estoy …

(trad. de Maria Cristina Azcona, Buenos Aires)

March 18, 2013.

Det er veldig fristende for meg
å sette navn på dem
som har såret meg inderlig i livet:
familiemedlemmer og skolekamerater,
offentlige tjenestemenn, media-virksomheter,
organisasjoner, hiv-aktivister, homser,
ultra-feminiserende feminister, anonymous-medlemmer,
busspassasjerer, fylliker, rasshøl, rasister …
men jeg gir faen til slutt.
Faen ta dere … alle sammen!
Det er mye bedre at jeg
illustrerer deres personlighetssvakheter
i litteraturen min … altså, uten navn.
Slik blir dere gjenkjennelige
til alle … for alltid.
Og, med den tilfredsstillelsen,
kan jeg ta kvelden …

    Nei —

jeg går ikke i kirken i kveld!


March 19, 2013.

I just noticed my own reflection
on the computer screen, and
it suddenly spoke to me — saying:
“Let me play the Devil’s Advocate …
just for a minute. I mean,
don’t you think that lots of people
are wishing that you would just
shut the fuck up about dying of AIDS?
We all face the possibility of death …
every damn day of our lives.
Why do we need the grief of your
reminding us of the inevitable, and
why subject us to your whining about
a destiny you have brought upon yourself?
I mean … get a life, Man.
You did the dirty deed,
and now you gotta pay the piper.”

(yeah … I have heard that for years.)

I hate mirrors and reflections.
They always lie, trick, simplify,
and distort the truth in standardized
and commercially-viable ways.
There is no art or poetry in such …
no hope, no life — just
cardboard existence devoid
of compassion, and of passion for
the drama of living and dying.

We all perceive life through
the lens of mirrors, but
consider this:
You will never know me
as long as you search for
empathy only in what you
want to see and hear.
And none of us exists
unto ourselves alone.

My reflection is already dead.


March 20, 2013.

Today is a cold wintry day,
freezing — both inside and
outside my little home.
But it is also Spring Equinox,
and should be a time of hope,
joy and expectations.
Twenty-six years ago,
on Spring Equinox,
I moved to Norway.
I was full of wonder, and
had missed the worst
part of the long Winter.
My first job was working
at a cemetery during
the Spring and Summer …
planting flowers and tending
the graves of persons I
did not know, and most
of whose names
I could not pronounce.
There will be no tombstone
bearing my name.
Like the Vikings before me,
my ashes are to be scattered at sea …
on the first Spring Equinox
after my passing.

March 21, 2013.

Dying over a long period of time
is bizarre … in that you both have
all the time in the world, and yet
feel a great urgency to make
your mark in the annals of notoriety
before you suddenly get sick
and give up the ghost.
No matter how many books
and art exhibitions I have to
my credit, I cannot stop
looking for new ways in which
to express myself because
as long as I create then I
feel as if I am still alive,
and that my using up
precious space, air, food
and water on this planet
is still justified.
I sometimes wonder:
what — of all that I have
created — will I possibly
be most remembered for?
Of course, I have my
preferences, but if I
were Beethoven and
heard his “Für Elise”
being played over
and over again …
and quite often
rather badly …
I would roll over
in my grave daily.

March 22, 2013.

I will not leave the planet today.
Having woken up in a fighting mood,
I have no patience for either Life or Death.
Every now and then questions of principle
or personal dignity take priority.
At that point it is “either you or me” …
Today, I feel like being a real cunt –
all day long!

March 23, 2013.

On dog days,
when nothing goes right,
impatient young men grumble
that the gods are
not on their side.
Their pursed lips
may boast indifference
but tell-tale scars
of self-abuse underscore
the misery of defeat.

March 24, 2013.

Forbidding visions of moon-parched
skulls with infra-red light glowing
from vulture-ravaged eye-sockets warn
the curious and the soul-dead against
that which does not concern them,
for admittance to the ever sacred
Fields of Transmutation and Catharsis
is by invitation only.
The well-oiled hinges on the gates of
Death never creak over human tragedy,
but rather rejoice at the prospect
of purification and recirculation of
mass and decomposing archetypes into
new forms of energy.
Tending this soil, so richly imbued
with essence of fertility, is an
age-less, cloaked gardener who works
in silence and darkness; and who,
from time to time, shakes his head
in bewilderment over the futility
and masochistic madness of those who
would resist transformation.

March 25, 2013.

Today, I feel like Daedalus —
philosophical, and uncertain about
the blurred edges separating
Existence and Nothingness:

Icarus, my son —
in all honesty I guess we were
always walking on the edge.
Suspended tautly between highs
and lows, we feared mediocrity
more than imbalance.
For us, challenge was but
the means of attaining individuality;
a space unto ourselves and
forever out of reach of
those who dreamed but
never dared to risk.
We soared like eagles and
we fed on desires that
sting the heart, yet
we neither gave nor received
beyond our passion for
excellence through solitude.
And now that I have witnessed
the birth of my conscience,
there remains no other recourse
than to re-invest myself in
the ongoing saga which is the
phenomenon of life.
Heretofore, I’d always thought
that phenomenon is emptiness;
but having now lost all
that has been dear to me —
I realize that emptiness
is a kind of phenomenon.


March 26, 2013.

Persons with AIDS are constantly
at the hospital, at the pharmacy,
at specialists … and giving blood.
Blood-spills, cuts … what a nightmare!
Imagine two vampire lovers with AIDS:

in the Spring of our rapture,
you assuaged my hunger
with gallant love-bites and
wept rubescent teardrops
as my own offering
cascaded willingly into the
vessel of your thirst.
enchanting midnight promenades,
serenaded by love-sick werewolves,
inevitably climaxed with
splendiferous candlelit repasts
of aristocratic blood plasma
and the finest port wines.
magically abducted by the ecstasy
of transfusion and reminiscence,
we who are forever young
renewed our vows of
never-ending devotion with
all the certainty and bliss
intrinsic to incipient passion.
so golden were our halcyon days —
yet unblemished by the ravages
of overfamiliarity and diseased blood,
now yielding insomnious forenoons
in separate coffins and
solitary meals under would-be
romantic moonlight.
since our greatest promise
has become your heaviest burden,
I look upon eternity as
the merciless side-effect
of myopic infatuation …
and dream, perhaps,
of growing old.

March 27, 2013.

You know, many young people with AIDS
really have it rough, and they have
to be real tough guys to make it.
Like this guy:

Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His alcoholic mother has breast cancer;
and his ‘dad’ left long before
he was born.
Living in a trailer park
has its perks: no one really
cares if you stay out all night …
or for days on end, for that matter.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
His sister is an ex-whore;
struggling to stay ‘clean’
so she can keep her job
as a cashier at Wal-Mart.
Her loser live-in boyfriend is
a ‘good-for-nothing’ …
a fucking bum who
won’t even bother to recycle
bottles discarded in garbage
receptacles or containers.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He gets beaten every other day
at school; and slapped once-a-week
at home. He’s used to it: doesn’t care
anymore really, but he has recently
begun carrying a switchblade to see if it
can be a deterrent … like going to war in Iraq.
He dreams of getting a handgun, and is hoping
that someone famous will one day pimp his ride.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …
He takes his HIV-meds when he remembers.
Life is a sweet mixture: sometimes ‘heaven’,
and oftentimes ‘hell’ … depending on the ‘high’,
the sex or the lack of either (or both).
A neighbor-punk called him ‘faggot’ once …
He just smiled … causing the asshole
to run in haste and fear. Who cares?!!
It’s all temporary anyway; what with
global warming, nuclear threats, serial killers
and terrorism .. and those fucking ‘super malls’.
His favorite posters in his room are pictures
of victims: from the Second World War, from
natural catastrophes, from terrorist attacks …
anyone who reminds him that he is one of
the lucky ones.
Doesn’t matter. For the moment anyway.
At least that’s what he thinks when his
mom blasts the old disco hit “I will survive!” …
the one time in a blue moon when he
sets himself down to do his homework.
Yeah, he’s a survivor …

March 28, 2013.

Gay bars have lots of persons with AIDS
that try “to pass”, i.e. to seem gay and
attractive in an hiv-negative way.
I get it, but it is sad to witness:

To friends who don’t know
and strangers who don’t care,
soldiers of love worship
tinsel-town sex goddesses
with all their strength.
They thrive outwardly on
the rantings of Madonna and
privately soothe their pain
and hopelessness with somber
strains by Leonard Cohen.
Their greatest ambition is
to shake the shackles of shame
which imprison and threaten
them with the most undignified
fate of all: namelessness.
To some there is no irony in death,
but others are enraged at the
uncanny plight of these handsome
living dead whose only crime was
need for love and recognition.

March 29, 2013.

Sometimes I just want to give up
because keeping up the courage and
the energy suddenly becomes more
than I can handle. It is a tightrope:

i swear they make this tightrope
thinner each time i attempt to cross.
i remember how my psyche could once
dance endless somersaults back and forth.
and how every now and then i would
laugh mercilessly to myself at how i
astonished and sometimes even
infuriated others with my devilish
dexterity of mind and wit.
but now, having fallen all too often,
i quiver at the sight of both
challengers and supporters; and
look upon success in reaching the
rope’s end as another day’s survival
rather than a demonstration of prowess.
i know a good sport never complains but,
i swear they make this tightrope
thinner each time i attempt to cross.

March 30, 2013.

Du lurte meg …
på så mange måter.
Det var jeg som skulle
gå bort først, for faen!
Og at du klarte å lure meg
når du endelig fikk til
selvmordet ditt …
Hva kan jeg si?
Vi har en del å snakke om
når vi møtes igjen.
Men – smertene blir jeg
aldri kvitt … til og med etter
alle disse årene.
Ingen nye kjærester er gode nok,
og nesten ingen mennesker er
intelligente nok til å samtale med.
Vi lovte hverandre mer enn vi burde.
Ingen kan love å være her for evig, og
ingen kan beskytte andre eller
kjempe ved siden av en annen
for alltid.
Vi har alle sammen vårt å styre med …
uansett hvor mye vi er sammen.
Du lurte meg … men
jeg tilgir deg – og
jeg forstår.

March 31, 2013.

Je préfère être à Bora Bora,
être amoureux …
avec la vahiné de mes rêves :

J’ai un amour secret:
aussi mystérieux que le récif de corail,
et aussi doux que le parfum de l’huile de coco
mêlé aux fleurs de tiare.
Nous n’avons jamais parlé,
mais nous sentons instinctivement
les caresses maladroitement cachées
sous nos regards volés
et nos rires étouffés.
J’ai un amour secret …
qui ne peut être possédé.
Elle est un objet de beauté,
que l’on admire à distance
et à qui on fait l’amour en rêve.
Je ne suis pour elle qu’un point de curiosité,
et l’une des mille images s’immiscant
dans ses rituels et ses danses.
Je ne peux que la regarder fixement
admirer la sensualité de ses courbes,
de sa souplesse féline
qui m’envoûtent
et me tiennent en otage.
J’ai un amour secret:
dans mes rêves
elle est ma vahiné …


April 1, 2013.

It is April first,
and I am still here.
I guess the joke is on me.
When I woke up this morning
I thought:

      “The mind is a wonderful thing,


    until you start to lose it.”

I had a good chuckle over my wit,
and then a more somber thought
took over:

      “I will probably die of


    my own neuroses …”


April 2, 2013.

I have critiqued several of
the best living haiku book authors
in the world …
but I do not write haiku or tanka.

I am fascinated by the arts of
bonsai and of Japanese and Chinese
calligraphy …
I suck at calligraphy, and my
bonsai plants always die within
months of purchase.

How is it that I survive so well
on mere inspiration from the
talents of others?

April 3, 2013.

Spring is in the air:
breakdancing clouds
laughingly roar
with all the grace
of shattering glass.

April 4, 2013.

dinge queen,
rice queen,
beans and rice queen,
snow queen,
opera queen,
gym queen,
chicken queen,
size queen,
chocolate queen,
aids chaser,
aids fag,
dairy queen,
matzah queen,
hummus queen,
potato queen,
wrinkle queen,
svarting …

i have heard it all before.
actually almost very time
i go to this gay bar.

it hurts no more than
faggot, queer, fatty or femi …
all terms you use amongst yourselves
but scream ‘bloody murder’
if non-gays use them against you.

yeah, i have AIDS … so what?!!
we all use a condom and
common sense anyway …
don’t we?

so, do you want to have sex,
or not?

April 5, 2013.

Yeah – I’ve got my eye on you.
On you … and your perfect physique.
Your face is rather forgettable, and
you exude absolutely no personality
here at the gym.
I have not dared speak to you
because I do not want to be
disappointed by your voice.
You do the Tom of Finland
physique even better than
Peter Berlin did in his prime.
So – I cannot help but look …
often; across the room,
and in the mirrors.
I am an artist … and I love
well-executed sculptures.
(I guess that makes me a voyeur.)
But do not get me wrong:
I do not want you.
I do not want to have sex with you.
I do not want to know you.
I do not want to speak with you.
I just want to steal a glance
every now and then …
and to dream of what I
one day might achieve –
in my next incarnation.


April 6, 2013.

No point in complaining about AIDS.
My doctors point out that – at my age –
I really cannot complain about much anymore.
Friends envy my literary and artistic
productivity, as well as my activism.
And I have my admirers on the internet,
looking for sex with a “hot, sexy and kinky
Mature man/Master”.

Even buddies at the gym politely encourage
me to keep at my efforts to rid myself of the
remaining body fat, while commending me for
looking quite good for a man of sixty years.
And many marvel at the fact that I work out
with weights and cardio training five days-a-week,
averaging at least two hours-a-day, and
sometimes even adding in two extra days of cardio.
I admit that I am manic about exuding Life Energy,
and I do what I can to appear vital … even if that means
not leaving the house, or not receiving visitors, on certain
“bad days” (and I am not talking about “bad hair days”
because I have no hair).
No, there is no point in complaining … because I live a life many
say they desire for themselves … except for the AIDS part.



      I will let you in on a little secret:


      Had it not been for the AIDS,


      I could not –


      and would not –


    have done it, either.

How is that for irony?


April 7, 2013.

Don’t be afraid …
and don’t be a bioche,
or a jackass of all trades.
Can’t you see that I don’t really
want to have sex with you … ?
I want to be loved, and looked up to;
and I sometimes want to “be you”.
Am I searching for identity in
all the “wrong places”? Perhaps,
but the part I dislike the most is that
I will do almost anything to get it:


April 8, 2013.

I thought that what I overheard
at the bar last night was a joke,
but the looks on the faces of the
three that had sized up and
pronounced their verdict upon
the nice-looking (but skinny) twink
betrayed neither jest or remorse as
they agreed that “no pecs = no sex!”

April 9, 2013.

une chaude journée d’été à marseille,
sans souci …
oh là là là là là là !
il a remarqué mon regard
il a l’air en colère
il vient vers moi
il demande une cigarette
nous allons à mon hôtel
il me quitte une heure plus tard, satisfait
le lendemain, je le remarque dans la rue à nouveau
et il a toujours l’air en colère

pour certains,
une vie avec le sida est une vie gâchée
ils n’ont rien à apprendre,
et rien à contester …
et ils ont surtout engendré la haine
envers le monde et envers eux-mêmes

… ouah, quel beau mec !
oh là là là là là là !

April 10, 2013.

telling a person with AIDS
that he should stop smoking
because he can eventually
get lung cancer and die,
does not always sound logical
to he who is looking to
lessen the daily and immediate
stress of a life with an incurable
virus that causes cancer anyway.
having a cigarette from time to time
can be relaxing, but i dislike having
to go out into the cold or rainy weather
just to “sneak in” a short-lived pleasure.
and my vanity and ego would inevitably
reprimand me for reduced lung capacity
when i do cardio training.
but — i will admit that —
every now and then,
i just don’t want to give a damn.
at those times —
sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, alcohol …
and tobacco feel like

April 11, 2013.

it is not always easy
to care for and show
concern for persons with AIDS.
we often reject “interventions”,
unannounced visits and
care packages left at our doors.
and “fishing trip” phone calls to
find out the latest gossip regarding
our dying status or psychology
is a “no-no” for many of us.
we will let you know when we
need help with something specific,
and if you cannot help when we need it
then you are quickly written off.
we usually do not ask for help, and
do not like to be seen as helpless victims.
i was recently furious when i read
the many testimonials and accolades
from the funeral of a colleague who
died of aids; because, just months
before, that person with AIDS had
confided to me that few friends had
helped him with simple practical
things that only required two arms.
unfortunately, usage of his hands
was his particular achilles heel.
but it ain’t always easy to give help, i know.
years ago i was the sole remaining
hospital visitor to a friend who was
dying of aids, and where the virus had
gone to his brain and made a caring
and sweet man angry and nasty.
you have to love in an ego-less way;
with respect for the pwa’s personal dignity.
if you think living with and dying from aids
is “easy” or comparable to anything else,
then try it yourself. sometimes that is
the only way to understand.

April 12, 2013.

so … you think that persons with AIDS
should refrain from having sex, or
perhaps only have sex with each other?
will that really permit you to continue
having unprotected sex with strangers?
should all gays, bisexuals and
racial minorities submit to frequent
mandatory testing, tatooing and
official registration as “pwas”?
i tremble in my boots … because
a mindset like yours is more
dangerous for both myself
and the world than a simple hiv
infection could ever be.

April 13, 2013.

Pell deg vekk, din feige falske faen!
Du skryter av det at du “kjenner meg”
og at jeg skal være begavet og små-berømt,
og så slenger du dritt om meg bak ryggen min
fordi jeg lever med AIDS.
Pell deg vekk, din feige falske faen!
Du har ikke særlig pent utseende, og
du har hverken status, penger,
eller sosial dannelse.
Pell deg vekk, din feige falske faen!
Jeg hadde aldri gått på deit
med deg som hiv negativ, og jeg
skal i hvert fall ikke gi deg noen
sosiale gevinster i kveld.
Du er alkoholiker og lystløgner.
Du er patetisk.
Pell deg vekk, din feige falske faen!
Pell deg vekk …

April 14, 2013.

I am a real sucker for beautiful women …
helpless goddesses, manipulating and
man-eating amazons, man-hating
nymphomaniacs with a bone to pick …
all flirtatious, and moody — “spiderwomen”
with love that gets turned on and off,
like a faucet; and vaginas that require
so much work to gain entry to that it is
almost not worth the effort.


Hey you, spiderwoman.
You who are always one of the
best-dressed in the city,
but who never uses money
when you are out on the town.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
So shy and alluring that
guys chase after you until
you capture them.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
So lonely. So sad.
So afraid for yourself.
Hey you, spiderwoman.
Is that so strange, really …?

(My original Norwegian version.)

Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Som bestandig er iblant
de best kledde i byen,
men som aldri bruker
penger når du er ute.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så sjenert at gutter
leter etter deg inntil
du fanger dem.
Du, edderkoppkvinne.
Så ensom. Så lei.
Så redd for deg selv.
Du edderkoppkvinne.
Er det rart, eller …?

(Spanish adaptation by Fernando Rodríguez)

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Que siempre
estás entre
las mejores vestidas
de la ciudad,
pero que nunca
gasta un peso
cuando sales
de noche.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Tan timida
que los chicos
te buscan
hasta que tú
los atrapas.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.
Tan sola.
Tan triste.
Tan temerosa
de ti misma.

Eh tú,
Mujer araña.

¿Es raro, o qué …?


April 15, 2013.

Remember the “lose weight with AYDS” campaign?
Are you old enough to recall how some gays
became chubby chasers and gym rat idolizers
because they thought they could thus avoid AIDS?
Before AIDS I was as thin as a pencil, and I
desperately devoured supplements to try to gain weight.
And now, with the AIDS medications and the bodily
changes from the disease, I have to work out constantly
to look fit and healthy.

AYDS candy sounds delicious to me …

April 16, 2013.

Sobrevivir al SIDA
y morir de otra cosa
es admirable, pero
para sobrevivir mentalmente
vivir con el SIDA
y la muerte
de todos sus amigos
es fenomenal.


April 17, 2013.

C’est le jour d’après, et
les indiscrétions d’hier sont pardonnées,
sinon oubliées.
Après tout, nous avons tous nos démons;
nos secrets, qui nous terrifient et nous tentent
nous tous et ceux
qui se laissent aspirer dans notre vertige.

Je suis en colère.
J’ai besoin de vacances …
dans un lieu exotique,
loin d’ici et
de mon stress quotidien.
Je rêve de Bora Bora …

Le meilleur dans cette panne mentale
en Polynésie française est
l’inévitable suspension du temps –
la grande vague aigue-marine de gentillesse –
celle qui apaise la folie en nous
et restitue la sérénité; Prozac naturel
nous berçant dans l’éloquente indifférence:
“C’est la vie! Donc tout n’est pas si mauvais.”

April 18, 2013.

jeux d’eau ;
dégel du printemps :
gouttes d’eau,
parfois en cascades …
beau à regarder.
et pourtant fascinant de voir
comment ces jeux d’eau
peuvent à la fois
donner une nouvelle vie,
et nous soutenir …
mais quelque fois aussi détruire
beaucoup de ce qui est
naturel et artificiel..

April 19, 2013.

The good luck of the
dragonfly can’t be measured
by lifespan alone.


April 20, 2013.

norwegian haiku —
salmon in a sushi roll;
exotic and fresh.

April 21, 2013.

some days, i don’t think
about AIDS at all: the pills
are like vitamins.

April 22, 2013.

at least once a year,
some drunk corners me
in a bar and insists upon
telling me a deep, dark secret
that i must swear never to reveal.


i know the script before he begins:
a gay man who previously scorned and
socially-abused hiv-positive men,
has now tested “positive” himself,
and he suddenly “sees the Light”.


as tempting as it is to reassure him
that getting an hiv-infection today is
much different than it was twenty years ago,
i smile, pat him on the back and
nod in sympathy (but not in empathy) …

i do not wish to be associated with “haters”;
and just having the virus in common is far from
being enough to establish a friendship.


April 23, 2013.

Spring break!
I remember such a holiday in Rhodes, Greece
some years ago.
I sat at the front of a large restaurant
in the center of the city,
and smiled back at an attractive
woman who sent me a beautiful gaze.
I invited her over to my table, and
to our surprise we both spoke Norwegian!
Shortly afterwards a pleasant conversation
turned to pure Hell as a gang of young
Norwegian youths who had seen me on television
debating HIV/AIDS questions determined that
it was their civic duty to warn this poor woman
that I was dangerous — even to talk with.
My table guest did not understand all the
gesturing, and shouting “Nei, nei!” (No, no!)
She understandably feared that she was talking with
someone who should be behind bars, if not assassinated.
I excused myself, paid the bill and walked out —
balancing personal dignity with feeling indignant.
That was the last holiday I ever had in Rhodes City.
Pity, I vacationed there often before that incident.

April 24, 2013.

Ignorance be not proud!
At least not where judging persons with AIDS
is concerned.
Of course, when an AIDS-activist is often in
the media: tv, radio, newspapers, magazines
and public space debates, then one will get
noticed and reactions can come in expected
and unexpected ways.
Some years ago, during my long-term career
working for the social security system,
on one particular day I had a short but
unexpected shift at the counter in the reception.
There was an endless queue that day but I
went with the flow, and helped the customers
efficiently … one after the other.
Suddenly a man of African descent approached
the reception counter and asked me if I was
the person that was on television the night before,
and who had AIDS. Of course, I replied “Yes.
And how can I help you?!!”
This man became vehement and made quite a scene,
screaming that I could not possibly be qualified
to work for a public agency since I had AIDS.
Yet another day at work in the public sector.

April 25, 2013.

I have had a long and difficult
relationship with the City of Oslo.
They have done some wonderful and
commendable things, and also some
things that would make most
AIDS-activists go through the roof.
My own start as an AIDS-activist
was ignited by two cases involving
two separate divisions of the City of Oslo:
In the first, I had been literally
kicked out of a surgical room because
the operating surgeon noticed for the
first time that my journal stated
that I was hiv-positive (he obviously
had not read my journal when he operated
on me just a few months previously).
Suddenly, I was a major threat to all
hospital personnel and a disgrace
(for not wearing a tattoo I suppose — or in
some way alerting the world that I had AIDS).
Reading my medical journal was — decidedly —
not adequate for an operating surgeon, and the
fact that I had already been fully-prepped and
was under anesthesia had no significance for him.
At the same time, my employers — in another part of
the City of Oslo — attempted to terminate me after
I had told them that I had been diagnosed with HIV.
After a very long and exhausting battle with them
and their lawyers, I was finally moved to a new
office with easy access to a toilet that only I
was to use (and I was to use no other, either).
The toilet was sparsely-decorated, save for a
large poster of Kama Sutra positions above the
toilet bowl.
I quit the job, needless to say … at some point
fighting ego and willful ignorance is hopeless,
and one must just move on.

April 26, 2013.

Gotta laugh sometimes.
I have been threatened with murder
several times (both verbally, and
with strangulation, stabbing, gun,
bare fists) … as well as letters from lawyers
who have threatened to ruin my life
by uncovering tons of personally
embarrassing shit about me.
Ha! A longtime survivor of AIDS
does not always get scared of death
quite so easily. Actually …
for persons with AIDS, openness
can be a powerful weapon …
and a good protection against
those who have more to hide
than we do.


April 27, 2013.

no one likes to hear me talk about suicide.
it is one of those taboo themes that are
best seen on film or mentioned under
one’s breath at cocktail parties … in
cryptic language.
for a person with chronic depression,
a deep depression is literally
only a thought away; and suicide
is — like deep depression — not
related to unhappiness or loneliness,
but rather to hopelessness and
poets and painters perhaps have
an easier time romanticizing
suicide. i have myself fiercely
fought jumping off bridges and
diving into the Devil’s Throat
at Iguazu Falls or into the rapids
in the mighty river below; and having
lived with the threat of death by
AIDS for so long makes quitting
my medications also a suitable exit.
fortunately, i have taken up the good
fight against “assholism” and,
with the world being so full
of egotistical idiots, i have
a lifetime of work ahead of me …
and perhaps,
a reason to stick around.

April 28, 2013.

Jisatsu Sakuru (Japanese Suicide Clubs)
are — to me — like looking for a soul mate
on Twitter or Facebook.
The real “warrior” prefers the Bushi’s Seppuku.
However, since it must be assisted by
a Kaishaku-Nin (介錯人), which guarantees a
prison sentence, many must settle for
something as simple as a nose-dive
from their office building.
But hey! That can be quite romantic,
n’est-ce pas ?

April 29, 2013.

woke up sick as a dog,
in the middle of the night,
with aching muscles,
dizziness, sore throat, and
i was in a real shitty mood.
by noon I was at the gym
performing a two-hour
weightlifting and cardio
workout … scared shitless
that i would pass out or
drop the weights.
but by the time i got past
the deadlifts, i knew i was
good to go — until the cardio.
i made it through — a bit
nauseous towards the end —
but as i eat my high-protein
dinner, and sip a well-deserved
glass of south african
red wine (while half-dancing
on the sofa to tunes and salsa
rhythms by yuri buenaventura),
i know that i shall do tomorrow’s
workout as well … come hell,
high water … or AIDS.


April 30, 2013.

I created a veritable
refuge of peace,
merely by assembling
a buddha,
two candles and
a piece of slate.
Imagine …
if everyone in the world
did the same tonight.

May 1, 2013.

So angry,
my cohort in incest …
but it was not our
loving act that
gave me AIDS.
And it is not
the AIDS that
has split us apart.
It is the unresolved
guilt and pain of loss,
coupled with the need
to … yeah, tell me —
just what do you now need
so many years later?
We are both painfully
aware of the ticking clockwork
of mortality … wasting
away, with every moment.
Of all in the world,
we two should stand by
and support one another.
We understand living
with AIDS … and we
understand the history
that made AIDS
a reality for us.
This may be our last
chance … to share strength
and forgiveness.
May 2, 2013.

I am a loving and forgiving person,
but when you rejected me for
the sake of a pittance of an
inheritance, it was over for me …
Had you hated me for being
bisexual or gay, or for dating
and marrying white folks,
then I could have dealt with it …
but the simple greed of ignoring
that I am your blood brother
for the sake of a few coins and bills …
that hurts more than all the pain
we have together suffered at the
hands of violent parents.
how could you?
how could you?

May 3, 2013.

yeah, i have been raped …
and i have raped.
i am not proud of either experience.
the woman i forced myself upon
was my girlfrend … but it was still rape.
the young man who forced himself
upon me used psychology:
i must not protest because it would
arouse his mother.
i fell for the same tactic, years later,
when a norwegian lover who had
stabbed me several times warned me
against bleeding too much in the stairwell
because of the neighbors, and also
against complaining to the police
because i was an immigrant.
but getting AIDS was not a
crime or rape … it was just
a life sentence.

May 4, 2013.

when i got the balls
to finally tell a few female colleagues
that i had been sexually harassed at work,
i was met by three reactions:
first: nervous laughter, because it
usually just happens to women …
secondly: anger, because i did not
shut up and take it as a man, and
thirdly: hysteria: now we can take
the chauvinist muthafukka DOWN!
i should of just met him in the alley …


May 5, 2013.

thinking about you j…
how many years has it been —
thirty plus years now?
god damn!
you are the only person
i absolutely could not
keep my hands off!
you were forbidden territory …
a co-worker, not out as gay at work,
cute as a button, sex hungry, and
totally fuck-able!
problem was …
you were in a relationship,
and one you were committed to.
you made this clear
every time we fucked
and kissed
and made love
and …
it was still the pre-AIDS era,
as far as we knew —
at the time (at least),
but we did get hepatitis — big time.
i remember the months on sick leave,
and the nurse talking about you, saying:
“he is one of the unlucky ones…”
that sickness ended our tryst … unfortunately.
had i been married to you, i would have
been only “yours for life”, i think.
i was obsessed … and still am.
no matter what the reality may be today —
for me, you are — and will always be —
alive, and ready for moi.

May 6, 2013.

ahhhh! miss chapel hill !!!
the woman that took my virginity,
and the woman whose virginity
i absconded with.
you were a few years older than I,
and fully-developed physically.
no woman since has ever topped the
extreme sensual-sexual joy i felt in
slamming down my chest onto your huge breasts,
and then immediately sliding down into
your hourglass-figured middle-body …
only to start all over again from
the bottom of the onslaught to the top.
you asked several times
if i loved your face
as much as your body.
in truth, i was so in love
with the thrusts, the sweat,
the body-pillaging, the rhythm …
that i hardly remember(ed) your
facial features or reactions.
in truth — i did not give a damn.
but … i loved you.
i loved making love to you.
several times a day.
but i did not want to marry you;
not so young … and your
suspected pregnancy freaked me out.
and so, i ran away … to california.
when you followed after —
i sent you home.
but not before having you again …
and again,
in one of the richest neighborhoods
in los angeles.
i sure hope you kept your figure.
in my fantasies, you have.

to think that i could have
been the father of several of our
children today — quite easily —
and possibly without AIDS.

knowing us both from then,
the children would have grown up
to be activists — just as we were.

May 7, 2013.

i have always protested
when it has been assumed
or asserted that i have been
a whore all my life,
and therefore have AIDS.
the truth is,
i never had a goddess vs. whore
way of looking at life, or people.
i just feasted and shared,
where it seemed appropriate.
yeah … i have been with many women.
and i have been with even more men.
i have fucked out of love,
and i have pretended to love
in order to fuck / get fucked.
let’s say that i have a “reichian”
understanding of the importance of
the orgasm and its meaning for identity.
goddess/god/whore: what is the difference
when there are so many men/women to serve,
and so little time?


May 8, 2013.

Rita Mae,

You were my idol —
back in the day …
I was so proud that
you actually spoke to me,
and appeared to like me …
me: a man.
A man who flitted back
and forth between male
and female lovers on the
campus of Goddard College …
in the “golden days”.
You were well-known amongst
“those in the know” back then,
but not as famous as now.
No, I really liked your energy;
your sense of womanhood
and humanity.
So unlike other celebrities
I had met around the same time:
like the rude Gregory Corso,
and the elusive and quiet Anaïs Nin.
You embraced personhood for me.
And you gave me strength that
I have used in my fight against
Thank you.

May 9, 2013.

when i cross over
to the “other side” …
i hope i do not win
an oscar for my
performance in
this lifetime.
there are all too many
to thank for the
circumstances that
have helped me to
make the choices
i have made.
i honestly do not
think that i can
manage an adequate
“thank you” speech.
can’t we all just salute
each other in a joint
standing ovation?
this is one painting
and manuscript
i cannot sign
my own name to.

May 10. 2013

m. is an incredible soul …
but she was an egotistical,
manipulating, alcoholic,
man eating bitch …
and all men loved her,
including myself.
even my teenaged friends
told me they wanted her.
she flirted constantly,
and competed with her daughters.
i do not want to be
her mate or son
in the next incarnation.
maybe a strict father,
but then she might kill me
… lol
seriously, i know her well
on the soul level.
we shall have “a talk” soon
… she knows this.
not all of this was in our contract.
the first thing i will say to her
and my guides after a good “hello!” is
“where is that goddamned contract!??”


May 11, 2013.

Talk may sometimes be cheap,
but silence = death.

May 12, 2013.

Nihilism is
the salvation for us all.
No Life = No Death!

May 13, 2013.

Did you ever stop and think
that this may all be part of
someone’s dream or nightmare?
… And that we will disappear
when he/she/it wakes up?

Did you ever stop and think
that humanity is a virus
that the normal condition of
AIDS or cancer constantly has
to do battle with for survival?

Did you ever stop and think
that there is no God, no plan,
no System … just hordes of
humanoid cockroaches, violating
an otherwise perfect planet?

Did you ever stop and think …
Did you ever stop …
and think?

May 14, 2013.

i woke up in a mood today —
you know:
Mary, Mary — quite contrary …
one look in the bathroom mirror
this morning and i knew that i
would not climb onto the scales
to weigh myself.
in fact, i decided there and then
that i would boycott calorie-counting
today as well.
alas, i am so anal-retentive that
i simply had to count something …
so, here i sit — in front of the
ipad — and count the minutes
until my next meal with calories
estimated by my sense of hunger.

May 15, 2013.

shhhhhh …
i had sex today —
in the middle of the afternoon.
… with myself.
actually, it was a Ménage à trois :
with me, myself and i.
i was not horny …
at least not to begin with …
i just wanted to confirm that all
the moving parts still worked.

that is none of your fucking business!
what do you think?!!



May 16, 2013.

meaninglessness and
emptiness are perfection:
zeros = zazen.

May 17, 2013.

is but another form of
addictive chaos.

May 18, 2013.

seppuku is the
ultimate defeat of fear;
fear of life and death.

May 19, 2013.

to cease to become
is to master the whims of
a wanton Ego.

May 20, 2013.

kinhin is the breath
of nothingness in motion;
no destination.

May 21, 2013.

if there is no Death
then surely there is no Life;
only waking dreams.

May 22, 2013.

to my beloved blade:
our dance is ritual;
a senseless obsession
between two moths
playing with fire.
no chains, no whips.
just bondage … and the
ever-sweet consequence of
a sabre’s cutting edge.


May 23, 2013.

i am but a liar,
my Lover.
i promise to stay,
but you know i
will often forsake You.
i swear to friends and family
that i will bid them “farewell”,
but i will steal my way back to you
in silence, My Beloved …
like a thief in the night.

May 24, 2013.

i can sense the sweet Essence
of My Beloved long before
i reach His embrace.
in the realm of nothingness
there is no room for
anything but our love,
and time is both
nonexistent and eternal.

May 25, 2013.

i am drunk with
infatuation for you,
my Lover.
i pray that tonight
will be the night
that never ends.

May 26, 2013.

Twoscore and two years ago,
while experiencing a
spontaneous rebirthing during
a Primal Therapy session,
I was startled to realize that
my oldest memory from this life
was one of longing for the
true Consciousness that
I had just left behind.

May 27, 2013.

The Norwegian summer
is soon upon us.
It has been long awaited;
a moment’s reprieve from
six months of Winter.
I never felt that
summer was a proper
season for dying.
But I have understood that
Death can be capricious.

May 28, 2013.

i am bored …
i don’t want to do anything,
but i don’t want to not
do anything either.
i am bored …
i don’t want to have AIDS
anymore, but i
hardly remember anything else.
i am bored …
with both Life and Death,
but — for the moment —
both seem inevitable.
i am bored …

what to do?

May 29, 2013.

When twilight comes and consciousness sleeps in,
age-old echoes from prehistoric times begin to hum
Ego’s cradle-song … first with low, dark-brown
cello tones which cause bone-marrow to tremble until
it flows, and then with high, glossy, unheard shrieks
which can only be made by angels who mean to provoke.
In time, my uneven breathing becomes transformed
into turquoise-colored waves which whip my oversensitive
psychic fortress from sobriety, and near panic.
There are no guarantees that I am ready for the
extraordinary gift that I am to be given:
a glimpse of existence in its unbelievable purity, which
is so personal that I am forced to grab onto
my earthly reality and smash the perfection
into countless, cloudy bits of mirror which rain lightly
upon my consciousness. I awaken sweaty, but not
completely empty-handed … and I am not the person
I once had been.

May 30, 2013.

In the twenty-fifth hour,
as sleeplessness concedes
to Jungian twilight
the inviolate ticking
of the bedside clock
betrays consciousness
with sinister rhythm.
It is a requiem of
abandonment, whereby
unprotected souls are
magically ushered to the
threshold of time’s end.
Clock-hands melt into
surreal images of groping,
disembodied appendages which
pull me down into the
infernal swirling oblivion.
I seem to fall forever;
plummeting past floating
sandstone ruins, through
prehistoric jungles and
at last into a vast galaxy
of translucent emerald shards.
The heartbeats of innumerable
still-terrified predecessors
urge me to scream before
striking bottom, and I
awaken in panic: grasping
for the luminous dial
of my unwitting timepiece.

May 31, 2013.

Skue din Gud,
og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Skue din Gud,
for det finnes ikke noe annet.
Skue din Gud,
som stammer fra dypt inne i deg.
Skue din Gud,
som er selve skapelsens kjerne.
Skue din Gud,
og la deg drukne i Kjærlighet og Lys.
Skue din Gud,
for det finnes ikke noe annet.
Se inn i speilet,
og sku din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
og vit at det er alt som finnes.
Iaktta dine venner, naboer og fiender,
og sku din Gud.
Skue din Gud,
for det finnes ikke noe annet.
Bryt ned illusjonen om et skille,
og sku din Gud.
Skue din Gud og vit at
alt er ett, og ingenting er tilfeldig.
Skue din Gud … og
Skue din Gud … og
Skue din Gud.


June 1, 2013.

last night, My Beloved
took me to the cinema.
he showed me an action film
where i was the main character.
against insurmountable odds,
i miraculously conquered the relentless
huntress Mortality, and
survived to meet yet another day.
early this morning,
My Beloved and i
sat together and rejoiced
over the divinity of the human process.
and – at this moment – i humbly embrace
the Mystery of a new dawn.

June 2, 2013.

existence is an
expression of fragmented
timelessness; a poem.


June 3, 2013.

i am not a man, and
i am not a woman.
i am not gay, straight or bi;
nor am i transgender.
i am neither meek nor strong,
and my skin is colorless.
i am but the wind blowing gently
through the tresses of My Beloved …
aspiring to become the simple caress
of divine essence: the breath
of Oneness.

June 4, 2013.

quite enraptured by my own image
in a mirror of Darkness,
i abandon both reflection and shadow
for a glimpse of the Unknown.

the night offers no refraction other than
the glint of an inner eye:
yea, the paradox of Blindness is revealed
through discovery of Self alone.

June 5, 2013.

lost in the assertion that
there is no god but God,
the drunken darwish is
rendered ecstatic by the
soma of perfection …
“Lā ʾilāha ʾilla-llāh …
ʾilla-llāh … Allah!” …

thus, through the magic of Zekr,
does the Serpent
unite with the Regenerative Spirit
and transgress the mundane.
the secrets of the
unwritten runes within
the eye of the triangle
are deciphered solely through
meditations of the heart;
and the rays of initiation
illumine the paths
of those led by
nothing more than
the promise of Salt.


June 6, 2013.

worrying only
leads to procrastination
or acts of panic.

June 7, 2013.

when the moon is in Fresno
and the sun sets a purplish
haze over early-autumn skies,
the cold winds of Hell
breathe heavily against
the hopes of local heroes
and the women who made them.
farmers stare off into the fields
without realizing, and housewives
pull their young close to their
bosoms – suddenly and
without explanation.
intuitively they sense the onset
of a long and severe influence;
a time of hardship and hindrance
when the faith and courage of
more than a few good men
and women are put to test.
the carousel is out-of-control,
and in the whirlwind confusion
crops will fail, loved ones will
pass away, jobs will be lost
and the simplest of dreams will
be stifled by saturn’s blues:
a mocking nursery rhyme telling
of horror and despair, and sung
over and over again with endless
variations on the same cruel theme.

June 8, 2013.

in the larger scheme,
life is but an afterthought.
i must still my Mind.

June 9, 2013.

i don’t have a clue
about the rebus of Life.
and that is okay.

June 10, 2013.

so many perambulations around
individual vs. collective identity:
“i’m okay – you’re okay!”…
“i’m okay – we are okay,
because we are One!”…
“i’m okay – you are not so hot!”…
and now:
“i’m not okay, you are not okay;
the world is fucked – deal with it!”
all are variations on the same theme,
in fact, they are the same song —
played over and over again,
on a continuous carousel;
all a search for Meaning
where the only meaning
is the search itself.

June 11, 2013.

my prized possessions
are those things i do not own:
trees, rocks, poetry.


June 12, 2013.

Barbeint tripper jeg gjennom skogens kongerike
uten antydning til verken forståelse eller fare.
Jeg er på oppdagelsesreise, og jakter etter soppens
gjemte hemmeligheter som et naivt barn i spøkelsesalder.
Nå og da blir min skjønnhetssøvn forstyrret av naturens
stillhet, som fremkaller ubevissthetens ristende og
fortryllende bilder fra steder uten tidsrom eller navn.
Bak en dinosaurusalders bregne, og ut fra under en
mosedekket stein, titter den vakreste sopp jeg
noen gang har sett, med en svær rød flate spekket med gul.
Jeg strekker armen min mot det skattete funn og
stopper opp akkurat når jeg er i ferd med å ta på den.
Steinen har begynt å stråle smaragd lys, først med
den rolige anspennelse til rødglødende kull, og siden
som den overveldende illuminasjon av Guds evig kjærlighet
og barmhjertighet, gjenspeilet i trillionvis av smil.
I det øyeblikket reiser jeg ut av kroppen, og chakraene mine
stiller opp i en perfekt linje mens jeg ser på meg selv
og summen av menneskelig eksistens fra langt ovenfra.
Og i den fullkomne harmonium gjenopplever jeg livet som
i de himmelske periodene mellom jordiske inkarnasjoner,
og alle mine daglige bekymringer og hemninger virker like
drømmeaktige og ubetydelige som en midtsommers dagdrøm.
Jeg returnerer aldri helt tilbake til bevisstheten som kjent
fra før, men beholder en liten del av den utstrålingen som
nylig har preget mitt hjerte på en så vidunderlig måte.
I ryggsekken bærer jeg hjem ingen sopp, men trolig den
mest ettertraktete skatt fra skogens kongerike: javisst,
en alminnelig stein — som souvenir fra livets drømmereise.



(English version)

Barefoot, I stumble through
the forest of the kingdom
without a hint of
either understanding
or danger.
I am on a treasure hunt,
and looking for the mushroom’s
hidden secrets — much
as a naive child
in the age of fantasy.
Every now and then my
beauty sleep is
disturbed by nature’s stillness,
which brings forth the
agitating and enchanting
images from places without
time or name.
Behind a fern from
the era of dinosaurs, and out from
under a moss-covered rock,
peers the most beautiful mushroom I
have ever seen,
with a broad red surface
speckled with gold.
I extend my arm
toward the precious find
and pause just
as I am about
to touch it.
The rock has begun to glow
like an emerald:
first with the quiet
intensity of
red hot coal, and
then with the overwhelming
light of God’s eternal love
and mercy,
mirrored in a trillion smiles.
At that instant I rise
out of my body, and
my chakras line up
perfectly while
I look down at myself and
the totality of
human existence from
far above.
And in the perfect harmony
I re-experience life
as in the heavenly periods
in between earthly incarnations,
and all of my daily worries
and obstacles seem just as
dreamlike and insignificant
as a midsummer’s daydream.
I never fully return back
to the consciousness that
I once knew,
but retain a small
portion of the glow that
has now touched my heart
in such a wonderful way.
In my backpack I carry home
not a single mushroom, but truly the
most sought after treasure from
the forest of the kingdom:
certainly, a simple rock –
as a souvenir from
life’s journey of dreams.


June 13, 2013.

I woke up in a bad mood today …
and felt like a
blameless victim
of my surroundings,
and — in my fury —
I imagined myself to be
a vengeful servant
of the Devil himself.
And then — most typically —
My Beloved spoke to me;
in that sexy, dry,
half-loving and
half-sarcastic tone that
He knows that I crave,
and love so much … which is
veritable spiritual heroin for
the true Believer:

The dark one
lurks not in
the shadows,
and not amongst
your friends
or enemies.
Beware, for
his evil lies
within you,
and eagerly
awaits release
by descendants
of Pandora.
Beware of
the road to
inertia and ruin,
so carelessly
littered with
temptation and
The self-centered
and worshippers
of false splendor
can expect
little more than
Yes. Beware
of darkness …
And beware
of mirrors …
But most of all
beware —
of the devil
that you are.

June 14, 2013.

Over the decades,
endings muted into beginnings
like swirls of blue-grey smoke
creeping toward alabaster palaces
in primordial consciousness.
There, in the garden of creativity,
the ashes of one zillion charred
impulses rained heavily upon
furrows of expectations,
cultivating dreams with experience.

June 15, 2013.

sunrays heal scars of
disillusion where time and
blind faith can fall short.


June 16, 2013.

“Det ordner seg nok,” sier min Elskede.
“Ikke uten egen innsats og iherdig kamp!”
svarer den utålmodige krigeren i meg.
“Ja, ja … ” sier min Elskede.
“Det er det jeg mener —
jeg har tro på deg.”
Og det var da jeg skjønte
at De elsker meg.


June 17, 2013.

do not promise to
be with me forever.
and do not tell me that
our love will last an eternity.
rather, meet me fully —
in this moment —
and dance with me …
dance with me.

June 18, 2013.

inside looking out …
and outside looking in —
two familiar perspectives;
waltzing together in puddles
of tears of disparagement,
and ecstasy; and at times
not discernable from one another.
birth, dying …
both channels of transition.
the repetition — from
lifetime to lifetime —
is monotonous, and
challenging … and
the difficult part is perhaps,
understanding and
coping with the
beauty of the illusive process
of living — without security
or assurance; and, on some days,
without love and support.
but i have learned to love,
and to fight, and to cry …
i am hooked, My Beloved.
give me strength,
give me courage,
give me love,
give me stamina …
and then heal me,
and send me out again —
and again, and again.

June 19, 2013.

Hhhjaaahh … skål!
For glede … og
forføreriske hipp hopp —
ghettorytmer som
tvinger mitt hjerte
til å synge, og mine
stramme lender til å
svinge … fønky!!! Jaaaahh …
Virkelig svinge; uhh høhhh …
så intenst at
muskelvevene mine får
huden til å sprekke
av oljeglatt svette
som renner, nei —
siver …
hemningsløst, og
uten samvittighet
… langt nedover …
(ikke stopp) …
mot min ventende …
den rykker noe jæææævlig
med musikken) …
mot min svære,
og sjelfulle
“Skal vi legge oss snart,

June 20, 2013.

so hot you are —
from behind;
with your perfect figure,
tight-fitting short skirt,
shoulder-length blond hair
bouncing against your
firm, but not-too-muscular
shoulders, sending my
lascivious gaze towards
the rhythmic twitch
of your delectable buttocks.
and i think — almost out loud —
“what a delightful specimen
of a young, sexy woman!” …
as i speed up my pace
to overtake you, and
prepare to flirt in earnest.
it is then, in passing —
as my glance
darts towards yours —
that i notice the turkey neck,
and the forcibly-tightened wrinkles
on your one-time
“i could be a model” face; and
your experienced seductive gaze …
smiling, but clearly prepared
for possible rejection.
i avert my eyes for a second,
and then i reconsider —
thinking: “she is no older
than i am … what the hell!”
and then i smile and say:
“You look great today!
Care for a cup of coffee,
or a glass of wine?”


June 21, 2013

Well hidden behind the portals
of passionless and watery eyes,
the incessant carousel of an insomnious
three-legged waltz is revealed with
childlike vision; hypnotically in
syncopation with the murmur
of the inviolate ticking clock.
In this surface-like existence, well
beyond resistance and emotion,
every attempt to break through is
as futile as punching a pillow
or screaming in a dream.
And in the absence of promise we
eventually find solace in our perpetual
state of existentialism and blues –
and pretend not to recognize the
ever-present and bittersweet
scent of lemons exuding from
each and every passerby.

June 22, 2013

je sais ce que vous voulez,
jeune homme …
et je pourrais être prêt
à vous la donner, mais
à un prix, bien sûr …
je n’ai pas besoin
d’une esclave sexuelle;
ils sont partout.
mais …
nettoyer ma maison et
vous asseoir tranquillement
dans le salon
pendant que je peins,
ou écris de la poésie ?
à ces moments-là,
je vais vous appeler
” Monsieur “.

June 23, 2013.

j’ai grandi
dans un ménage matriarcal.
et déjà
— jeune homme —
j’ai appris à aimer les vertus
d’une femme mûre :
certaine de ce qu’elle veut,
et qui se méfie
d’engouements précipités
mais désireuse de plaire.

Comble moi, O vagin !

June 24, 2013.

In the guises of feminism and masculinity,
we paced and stalked definition
with the cunning of a mother lion:
’round and ’round, closer and closer,
until our precarious showdown brought us
face-to-face with insecurity and dream.
As the war-drum heartbeats of a
million Amazons prepared to vanquish
my masculinity at its first indiscretion,
I loaded my tongue with silver arrows
and mercilessly catapulted the words
‘I love you’ against your brazen shield.
And simultaneously we fell — breathless.

June 25, 2013.

night sweats? tossing and turning?
hmmm … it could be AIDS.

June 26, 2013.

some people long for Spring,
and dream of assuaging the
bitter sores of Winter’s
darkness and solitude with
woodland walks and premature
sojourns to outdoor cafes.
and some people visualize
this year’s perfect garden,
an unusually colorful
palette of vibrant flora
exploding with hopefulness
and lust for living.
or rather plan exotic
summer vacations, June
weddings and cozy, social
outings with friends and
loved ones on traditional
holidays in April and May.
but others, like me, spend
year-long Winters cuddled up in
blankets next to the fireplace,
reading about “some people”
in novels and romance magazines —
with utmost preoccupation.

June 27, 2013.

it occurs to me
that life is every bit
as humbling as death.

June 28, 2013.

life: each morning i
don my poker face and say
“okay, deal the cards!”

June 29, 2013.

life’s true miracle surely
lies in its circular motion;
endings and beginnings
yield cleansing and rebirth.
god save the ouroboros!

June 30, 2013.

how many times
have i professed:
“at last i understand
that life is maya …
merely an illusion!”?
alas, i have been right,
and have misunderstood,
each and every time.
the biggest illusion
is being convinced
that one has deciphered
a code that is incomplete
without perspective obtained
in life between lives.

July 1, 2013.

last night,
i dreamed that my soul entity
stood before the Council
in the Life between Lives.
after being asked to justify
several of my life choices,
i began to laugh and said:
“surely, you are joking!??”
the chief regulator replied:
“no sir, we are not joking.
but we acknowledge that you,
in your last incarnation,
underestimated several
important lessons to be learned,
and made a mountain of
a mole hill of countless others.
now, please tell us Sir:
just who bears the brunt
of the joke that you call
this lifetime?”
i steadied myself
against the plinth next
to me, and whispered:
“knowledge after the fact
is good to have,
but please — Sirs —
give me a lifetime,
the next time around,
in which i learn strength
to embrace wisdom.”

July 2, 2013.

sheesh …
slammed against
wall after wall,
in the same small room;
repeatedly … with
the same lessons,
albeit slightly disguised.
i am drugged: intoxicated,
and hooked on the pain —
of failure, and confirmation
that i could not succeed —
and the sweet justification
of knowing that
i never stood a chance
because all was

July 3, 2013.

Pienso en tí …
y muero
en mis sueños.

Pienso en tí …
y ahora
lo único que queda
es la música,
unas palabras perdidas
y … quizás
una que otra lágrima
errante …

Pienso en tí …
la lluvia oculta
la arrogante apatía,
el retórico insoportable.
La apología
sin rostro
de los que piden perdón.

Despierto y descubro
que baten
ventanas con grietas
y sueños quebrados …

De súbito …
no puedo llorar más;
la lluvia ha parado.
Bajo el cielo desnudo
la vieja pintura se descolora.

Y yo pienso aún en tí …
hasta olvidar
el silencio que ya existía

antes de la muerte de mi amor.

July 4, 2013.

white roses lay neatly placed
upon the hardened snow —
just centimeters from where
the still-absent tombstone
will one day proudly loom
over wayward leaves, single
blades of grass and stalwart
perennials in rainbow shades.
the first tear drools, then
streams down my wind-burned
cheeks and others quickly
follow suit in search of
the meaning of life and death,
as well as other unanswered
mysteries prompted by your
almost coincidental passing.
friends urge me to go on
with my life and speak of
the treasure of memories and
shared experiences that have
made me the unique human
expression that I have become,
and which will further shape
the lives of others I touch.
but I believe in the worms
which industriously toil at
converting your precious bones
and ashes to fertile soil which
will nourish the flowers my
successors will one day plant
when I, quite coincidentally,
find the answers you now covet.

July 5, 2013.

at this moment,
i am a poem in the making;
a feeble attempt to illustrate
that which is already quite
perfect in its expression:
the warmth of the sun
kissing my windblown cheeks,
the tears welling up in my eyes
as i listen to a song that
moves me suddenly …
even though i have heard it
countless times before,
pictures and plants that
caress me with loving thoughts
as i hurry past them —
lost in my own completeness.
at this moment,
i marvel at the wondrous
gift that life is;
always presenting me
with the possibility
of reappraisal and renewal.
at this moment,
i do not care so much
about being remembered
after i have left the earth;
neither for my convictions
or for my accomplishments.
at this moment,
i am a poem in the making …
at this moment,
i simply am.

July 6, 2013.

walking the fine line
between glamour and
sobriety … taking care not
to fall between the
cracks … not to believe
in the darkness of the
daylight alone,
away from the glitter
of champagne cocktail nights,
designer jackets,
tastefully-torn jeans
and uncomfortable shoes.
the music must not stop;
shine the camera on me
just a little bit longer. see:
i am setting the pace,
flaunting a fashion statement.
synthetic is but a natural
reaction against reality.
just give me my moment.
a self-made idol;
cliches spat out and
yes, i could be a star.
what … my name?
i am just part of the
rhythm, the lights are
my melody against the
night of glittering glam.
i am nothing more than
a torn-off piece of
average, sparkling
against the annals of
history and the

July 7, 2013.

crumpled paper.
edges blood-stained
from paper cuts –
ridges of emotion
desperately trying to
conceal the words
of love that were
never meant to be
written for all posterity;
but merely muttered under
my breath in a moment
of mindless passion.

July 8, 2013.

you say that i disappoint you …
and that i am truly not
the “spiritual being”
that you thought i was.
well, you never disappointed me … but,
unfortunately, i accepted the limiting
patterns in our relationship
for far too long, and became remiss
in loving myself … that is,
until that fateful day when
i embraced my own humanity
and gave us both a “new start”.
sometimes loving another
is best expressed by
setting them free.

July 9, 2013.

Ishq Allah, Ma’bud Allah!

my qualifications as a Sufi are tested
at each and every moment.
call me instead: a madman of God.

July 10, 2013.

for some, professing atheism is
a demonstration of courage.
my own daily obsession
is rather like a video game:
differentiating appointed
“men of God” — and others who
promote hatred, hypocrisy and
arrogant apathy — from the
Divine Force that i know
and love so well.

July 11, 2013.

it took me a half a century
to learn to say “no.”
ten years later,
i am now monitoring
my desire to say:
“Hell no! … what
part of ‘no’ did
you not understand?”

am i progressing …
or regressing?

July 12, 2013.

dear AIDS virus: there are
just four weeks left until
our platinum anniversary!
i am ticking off the days
on the calendar; just as
you have been gobbling up
my t-cells — for twenty years.
aside from with My Beloved,
you are the longest intimate
relationship i have ever had.
ours is a strange, and
sometimes wonderful /
sometimes not,
symbiotic marriage.

July 13, 2013.

tonight, my roommate,
Virus, is having
a party inside my brain.
he is playing loud music
with a thumping baseline,
which makes it difficult
to think and make sentences.
tonight, i seek refuge
in emptiness but the
void only makes me
break out in sporadic tears,
without knowing why.
tonight, i will let him
have his rave party but
tomorrow it is once again
my turn to run this house.
i cannot hate my roommate
because we are one
and the same, and
hating myself hurts us both.
still, sometimes …
i just wish he would move out.

July 14, 2013.

for a while, i thought
that i could, perhaps,
just meditate away
the virus by emptying
my Mind of all attachment
to existence and chaos.
and then i attempted
to beat the virus consciousness
back into its cage with
the courage of a crusader
and the convictions
of a true believer.
after that, i repeated
the Names of God,
over and over again in
hope of drowning the scoundrel
in the baptismal basin.
and finally, i took purifying
showers several times
a day but i remained just
as “dirty” as the act of Love
for which i am still paying.
now, i regularly subdue
the Beast in me
with toxic drugs, and
salt our co-existence
with ploys to buy myself
just a bit more time.


July 15, 2013.

Virus does not
respond well to my anger;
it only makes him stronger.
And he is a jealous lover;
demanding all my attention …
every damn day.
I just do not know how
to love a lover like that.
I never did.

(Perhaps that very dilemma helped
to get me here in the first place.)

July 16, 2013.

fifty ways to leave a lover
but only one way to dump Virus;
and then he stills wins.
go figure!

July 17, 2013.

I am off to a party
with My Beloved!
Virus has insisted upon
tagging along, and he
will surely invite his
sordid friends
Life and Death;
but My Beloved and I
will be lost in our own
private celebration
in the Wine Cellar,
and we cannot
be distracted.
This happy darwish
shall whirl and dance
in ecstasy — for an
eternal night of Love.

July 18, 2013.

when the illusions
(Life, Death, Virus) fall away …
then, My Beloved!

July 19, 2013.

a lifetime of seeking to expose
the veil behind the veil
has not led me any closer
to cognitive understanding
of the rawness of life,
the mysteries of the universe,
or the whimsical journeys
of incarnated souls.
while i truly cannot believe
in that which i cannot see,
i am learning that true vision
has little to do with my eyes.
the Essence of God is
permanently engraved into
my heart: Allahu!
it is there that i sit,
together with My Beloved:
smiling and holding hands
while the bombs of fear, greed,
selfishness, egotism, anger, virus,
hatred, apathy and war-making
continuously explode …
all around us.
and i sing my only prayer, over
and over again, while tears
of joy stream down my cheeks:
“Lā ʾilāha ʾilla-llāh …
ʾilla-llāh … Allah!” …

July 20, 2013.

Poniard-like buds whisper
innermost secrets of
sporophytes and gametophytes,
while fledgling wrens with
heads pressed close to earth
listen to the sounds of worms
inching through sodden humus.
In time, fimbriated foliage will
scale deciduous boughs in a
symphony of vascular chiaroscuro
greenery, rendering refuge
and perch to the weary and
the daring.
Noting the watchful gaze
of the adolescent feline
in the nearby window,
the mother-wren hurries her
young onward, explaining
nothing more than that
much is to be learned
in a short frame of time.

July 21, 2013.

Primal ritual cries of reveille
from innumerable cricket tribes,
during the wake of nocturnal
nigrescence, beckon the
Children of Nyx from
crepuscular seclusion.
A momentary hiatus in the
mesmerizing rubbing of wings
divulges the faint slitherings
and slinkings of creepy-crawlers
and creatures of the night, in
exodus from nature’s underworld.
And keeping watch over the
order of things in no man’s land
is a vigilant nighthawk,
whose stark eyes piercing
through the darkness stir
horripilation amongst the meek.


July 22, 2013.

it has been a year of Winter.
the sun is shining, but
not as warmly as i would like.
some blame it on climate change,
and others insist that everything
is normal when seen over time.
my own present thoughts
are rather in sympathy with souls
deep in incarnation and learning.
My Beloved is compassionate,
and understanding of incarnated souls
that forget which role they play
from one incarnation to the next …
in one life we are abused, and
in the next we abuse; or quickly
move from the role of partner
in one lifetime to that of
incestuous parent in the next one.
in fact, often the confusion occurs
within one and the same lifetime,
and with the same soul emanations.
generally, i figure, “right is right” and
“wrong is just wrong”.
but we all suffer periodically from
alzheimer light.
and i think, right now,
in the midst of Winter:
“who is to judge, really …
who is to judge?!!”

July 23, 2013.

listen, i really appreciate
your advice and suggestions,
but i have tried every
alternative remedy i
have come upon.
no one can “cure me” …
i must figure that out myself;
and some things will not
be healed until my “soul wash”
after i have left this rock.
but … please … do not
look at this as an ego-thing,
or yourself as a miracle-worker.
it is okay; i may even outlive you …
one never knows.
but i will allow you to kiss
my hurt, to put a bandage on it
and tell me all will be okay —
even though we are both in doubt.
is that enough for you?

July 24, 2013.

you can silence me;
and you can even kill me …
but i will come back.

July 25, 2013.

the source of my strength?
loving my opponents more
than they love themselves.

July 26, 2013.

pollutants and poisons abound:
in the air, in the earth, in the water,
in our foodstuffs, in our medications,
and in our planetary consciousness …
in the forms of fear, greed and hatred.
i guess one could surmise that this
dis-ease of consciousness is global,
and that AIDS is just one manifestation
of a host of symptoms which we all
contribute to, and all too few of us
accept responsibility for in our
daily and lifelong choices of lifestyle,
politics, words, thoughts and actions.
verily, humanity IS Virus.

July 27, 2013.

healing myself is
not possible without a
change of consciousness.

July 28, 2013.

some taxpayers complain
about the costs of treating
persons with AIDS, and
advocate shielding society
against further infections
by locking us up or by
forbidding virtually all sex
outside of marriage between
man and woman.
but few think about the vast
number of jobs that surely will be
lost when a real “cure” is found.
can our economy and environment
survive a healthy world population?

July 29, 2013.

AIDS equals terror,
driven by fear and hatred …
the killer virus.

July 30, 2013.

on less self-indulgent days
i can list a million things
that are worse than AIDS.
but i know that — in time —
those that succumbed to AIDS
will be likened to those who
died in the holocaust, and other
major massacres throughout history.
and, there is status to be obtained …
both in the ways in which we live,
and in the ways in which we die.

July 31, 2013.

my greatest act of
activism is to live,
as long as i can.


August 1, 2013.

everyone is entitled
to his day of recognition,
and for persons with AIDS
that day is December first:
World AIDS Day.
the rest of the year,
it is business as usual,
and the dis-ease from
living with and dying
from AIDS is expected
to be shouldered with
puritanical stoicism.
one must never forget that
the phrase “how are you?” is
a greeting — not a question.

August 2, 2013.

on days like this,
when Virus refuses to get up,
i too am trapped in bed
for hours on end.
on days like this,
we hold each other
in empathetic disillusionment,
and engage in pillow talk.
inevitably, he tries to convince me
that the problem is not him
but rather the toxic meds
i religiously ingest
upon advice from
doctors and pharmas.
“they are nuking everything
in here,” he exclaims.
“they have already
taken out one of our
kidneys, and several
other organs are
under attack!”
i try to find inspiration
from the lively sounds
outside the bedroom window:
the gay laughter
of children playing war games
and the chirping of birds,
but my only consolation
to us both is to whisper gently:
“tomorrow is another day.
let us take it as it comes.”

August 3, 2013.

mesmerized by the
anointing smile of
Christ the Redeemer
i see a muse
with an angel
to the chanting
of a monk’s choir;
a solemn moment’s
reprieve from a
raging sea of cynicism.
and I cling tightly to my
dream-state while
tears of joy and recognition
rock me lovingly back to
true consciousness;
reminiscent of
life between lives –
a moment of bliss

August 4, 2013.

Virus wants to know
if I am planning to leave.
I just smile … wryly.

August 5, 2013.

dusk overtakes me.
in theory, a new dawn
is still possible.

August 6, 2013.

when i one day
return to My Beloved
it will not be with
bitterness in my heart,
but with humbleness for
the extraordinary learning
this life has afforded me.
i have far fewer answers
than i had before
my life with the virus,
but the wealth of new
questions i have learned
to pose gives me a richer
understanding of Enlightenment.

August 7, 2013.

The cautioning crunch of air compressed between
boot and dust-ladened pebbles goes unheard as
Aleph the Fool steps naively onto the pavement.
Overhead, the spirit of ether condenses into
illusory nimbus formations which shield his
half-opened eyes from the apparition of Zelotziel.
He is neither a true believer nor cynic, but rather
an empty vessel longing to be replenished with
seductive impressions of colorful indiscretion.
I recognize in his fixed smile the arhythmic
and pained beating of my own lonely heart: a
reminder that nothing risked is nothing gained.
Sadly, the quest of the Fool lacks awareness
that Truth’s magical portrait will be unveiled
only after the snarled process is complete …
and that the Tarot’s mysterious paintbrushes
are inherently dualistic.

August 8, 2013.

some insist that
life is unfair,
and that people
are cruel.
i am just now
to see order
in the chaos.

August 9, 2013.

for the first time
in twenty years
of marriage,
i told Virus
that i love him.
we both cried,
long and hard.

August 10, 2013.

true enlightenment:
outside looking in equals
inside looking out.

August 11, 2013.

it is so quiet here
in the house today
that you could
hear a pin drop.
Virus is moping
in the bedroom,
Life and Death
are whispering
in the living room,
and i am lost in
my own thoughts.
tomorrow is the day:
twenty years with AIDS;
and everyone is
wondering what
will happen.
what was it the
doctor said when
Virus first moved in?
“till death do you part.”
Virus, Life, Death and
My Beloved will all get
my answer tomorrow.
i sure hope it rains …

August 12, 2013.

Dear friends,

In another reality,
for another personality,
things might be quite
different than they now are:
perhaps God would not exist,
and AIDS would not be caused
by HIV-infection … nor would
the disease be fatal or require
toxic drugs to hold it under control.
In another reality,
in the mind of someone else,
Life and Death would
both be meaningless, and
there would be no need
for life between lives,
repeated incarnations or
human spirituality in any form.
But I choose not to live in
such a reality, and I assume
responsibility for all that which
I create — for better or for worse.
I will shout out my love for
My Beloved from the highest
rooftop; and I will accept
Life and Death with dignity,
and without fear or hatred.
And yes, I will continue to
share my frail body and
AIDS-soaked brain with
you, Virus — for as long as
the challenge inspires me to
further individual and collective
soul development.
However, the moment I have
exhausted all life force and
drifted over to that alternative
reality where Life and Death
are meaningless, I shall
fully return to My Beloved for
soul healing, renewal, and in
preparation for my next expression
as an incarnated soul.
And so it is, that — in this reality —
I promise you but “today” — for
that is all that I have to give.
But I do promise all of you that
my every “today” will be
filled to the brim
with passion and love …
not perfect, and perhaps not
good enough for all, but
the best that I can manage.

Isn’t the rain beautiful?!!

ADAM DONALDSON POWELL (Norway) has published various literary works: poems, stories, novellas/short novels, literary criticism, essays, art photography criticism; and also works with painting and photography. He was born in the USA, and resides in Norway. He has been a professional visual artist (since 1995) and a writer (since 1987). He has published 11 books, in USA, Norway and India, as well as several short works in literary publications. Among his many literary and artistic themes are multilingualism, the transcultural, spiritual development, societal development, LGBT issues, HIV/AIDS etc. He has written, performed and published works in English, Spanish, French and Norwegian. His poetry and essays have been translated into several languages, including: Spanish, French, Russian, Japanese and Bengali.

GAYTUDE (co-written with Albert Russo, and published in 2009 (Xlibris Corporation) was the 2009 National Indie Excellence Award Winner (in the category gay/lesbian nonfiction); Adam was the winner of the AZsacra International Poetry Award in 2008, and the recipient of a Norwegian Foreign Ministry’s travel stipend for authors in 2005.

Book publications:

The tunnel at the end of time (co-written with Rick Davis and Azsacra Zarathustra), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-160-4 , © 2010, India.

Malerier og fotokunst, a short 38-page retrospective overview of some of Adam Donaldson Powell’s best known oil paintings and photographic art works. Published by Cyberwit.net as a special limited and numbered full-color, soft cover edition (55 copies only), ISBN 978-81-8253-154-3, India, © 2009.

Gaytude: a poetic journey around the world, gay poetry in English and French by Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powell, 335 pages, published by Xlibris Corporation, © 2009, Library of Congress Control Number: 2008907964, ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4363-6396-9, ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4363-6395-2, USA.

2014: the life and adventures of an incarnated angel, 135 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-118-5, © 2008, India.

Critical Essays, literary and photobook criticism by Adam Donaldson Powell and Dr. Santosh Kumar, 108 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-110-9, © 2008, India.

Le Paradis (Paradise), 80 pages, Cyberwit.net, ISBN 978-81-8253-103-1, © 2008, India. Includes a booklet with symbols from The Universal Language of Light, as seen by Laila Holand.

Rapture: endings of space and time (86 pages), Cyberwit,net, ISBN 978-81-8253-083-6, © 2007, India.

Three-legged Waltz, (80 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 818253058X, © 2006, India.

Collected Poems and Stories, (175 pages), Cyberwit.net, ISBN 8182530288, © 2005, India.

Arcana and other archetypes, (special limited edition – hardback collection of poetry), AIM Chapbooks ANS, © 2001, Norway (now out-of-print).

Notes of a Madman, (hardback collection of poetry), Winston-Derek Publishers, Inc., © 1987, ISBN 1-55523-054-7, USA (now out-of-print).

See Adam’s website: adamangel.wordpress.com for updated information on his literary and artistic activities.

Order my books from: http://www.cyberwit.net, http://www.tajmahalreview.com, http://www.amazon.com and “Gaytude” can also be ordered from http://www.xlibris.com

Gaytude – winner of 2009 Indie Award for best gay book, is now available from Kindle books!


G A Y T U D E – Published by Xlibris Corporation – Xlibris Corporation

Copyright © 2009 by Albert Russo and Adam Donaldson Powell.
Most of Albert Russo’s poems in French first appeared in Tour du monde de la poésie gay, Editions Hors Commerce, Paris, 2005.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008907964


NOW AVAILABLE FROM XLIBRIS: GAYTUDE, ‘a poetic journey around the world’
published by Xlibris (USA) – 335 pages.
To order Gaytude from Xlibris: Gaytude order

ISBN hardcover: 978-1-4363-6396-9 – ISBN softcover: 978-1-4363-6395-2

Gaytude can also be ordered online from Barnes and Noble

and Amazon.com as well as Amazon France, Amazon UK, Amazon Canada, Amazon Germany, Amazon Japan, Target, Alibris (USA), Alibris (UK), Book.com.mx (Mexico), Bogpriser (Denmark), adlibris (Denmark), Akademiskonline (Denmark), eLounge (Denmark), Slbooks (Denmark), Norli (Norway), Tanum (Norway), Ark (Norway), Bokkilden (Norway), Penelope Bokhandel (Norway) and many other places around the world.

Gaytude is a poetic study of both the universality and the diversity of gay experience … an experience of confluence whereby individual love, lust and identity are constantly in tandem and conflict with collective mores, customs, codes and trends. In a sense, we are all gay … inasmuch as we all seek the right to be different, as well as to be the same. For some, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is recognition and acceptance ; and for others it is perhaps the excitement of covert intimacy and adventure. This book is dedicated to all gays, including those who flaunt their sexual orientation freely and those who still remain secretive or inactive due to still ongoing risks of abuse, harassment and execution.
One day, men all over the world will be able to proudly quote from Catullus 16 – this time with pride and loving spirit: “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo” .



“There is no doubt that Powell, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, Sylvia Plath, John Berryman, Randall Jarrell, and Delmore Schwartz are the most talented American poets of the modern age.” — Dr. Santosh Kumar, Allahabad University, 2010, from his recent book entitled: Adam Donaldson Powell: the making of a poet.

“Adam Donaldson Powell: The Making of a Poet”, a critical analysis of the published works of Adam Donaldson Powell. Order the book from Cyberwit.net.


Adam Donaldson Powell has been listed amongst notable GLBT writers of all time several places on the internet.


My own activist career began when I was a teenager, and – in spite of both my parents being careerists in the United States Air Force – I became an anti-war activist (Vietnam War) and conscientious objector. That activism had many expressions: from silent Quaker vigils to anti-war marches and rallies to getting thrown out of the courtroom of Judge Julius Hoffman (famous from the «Chicago Seven» trials) for civil disobedience while supporting a draft dodger. My activism has including working as an employee of organizations such as the American Friends Service Committee (a Quaker social service and peace education organization), the Partnership for the Homeless, Amnesty International Norway etc., working for the Norwegian government in support of the unemployed, immigrants, the disabled etc., establishing my own activist organizations in Norway in support of immigrants, artists/authors/dancers/actors/filmmakers, and also representing organizations that lobby for the rights of persons with HIV/AIDS. Being an activist has required me to constantly weigh whether my own convictions and interests are best served by working for or representing an existing organization, political parties, agency or institution OR working alone so that I may set my own specific agenda and choose my own methods of working. The latter has given me special satisfaction. In that regard I have used my talents as a speechwriter and public speaker, as a book author, as a musician, as a linguist, and as a visual artist to promote my ideas and my support for those who do not themselves have the possibility of getting their voices heard publicly. In 1994 I arranged Norway’s first World AIDS Day art exhibition (a tradition which I kept going until 2009), I have promoted the rights of immigrants and of performing, literary and visual artists, and debated with top politicians in Norway on television, radio and in the tabloids, I have represented persons with HIV/AIDS on behalf of the Norwegian government and otherwise at UNGASS (United Nations General Assembly Special Session – Declaration of Commitment on HIV/AIDS) as well as at international conferences in Norway and in other countries, I have initiated one-man protest demonstrations against individuals and government agencies that I felt abused the dignity or rights of the disabled and persons with HIV/AIDS, etc.; and I have been critical of other individual activists, government institutions, politicians, and also of activist organizations in the media. At times I have also worked within the «system», and as an advisor and cooperative partner to the system, and publicly defended specific government policies, and I have held office in a major political party. All this after personal analysis of the best ways to bring my activist ideas into government and organizational policy frameworks.

All my formal education and life experience comes into play in my activism: including my master degree in international and developmental public administration, my years of working for the government in Norway and as a university administrator and corporate writer/editor in the United States, and even my college bachelor of arts thesis (on the legal rights of minors {young persons} to consent to acquisition of contraceptives and to psychological counseling) which resulted in my own draft legislation eventually becoming state law in Vermont, and then later in Ohio.

I have also served on the board of directors of several organizations in Norway and in the USA which work in the areas of LGBT rights, the rights and needs of persons living with HIV/AIDS, the arts, and religious expression. And finally, I have organized international conferences for persons working in support of persons living with HIV/AIDS, as well as international and bilingual authors. I have held many speeches and been a high-profile spokesperson at conferences and in the media, and my visual art exhibitions and my authored books often address themes related to my areas of activism.

My most current expression of activism involves supporting and informing others through the internet, as well as in my visual art and in my work as an author and editor – herein encouraging the voices of contemporary activists through literature.

~ Adam Donaldson Powell

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