Last Dance

Faint, eroded, near-erased –
soon to be no more:
take it by its tiny waist
and waltz it ‘round the floor.

.

Slide

A
little
quip – a
bit of slick
perusal, quick
catch!: too dark
to make much out –
but there is always this
interiorly strange conundrum
stuff to whip, regale and fluff you
into something that might just erupt
enough: sufficiently to blast a little freedom
in and up and through your winter heart. Slide down
the slope, my dear: I’ll meet you at its nether part. Today
we’ll close our eyes and belly whop onto the frozen Universe for art.

.

Brutal Graces

Winter sun seems set
on blinding you
a little earlier today –
no way to stop the slow
revolving angle

of the global axis’ sway
away from that sweet
darkest solstice day
eight days ago – when
night was emperor.

A brutal glare too eagerly
cuts air: blares squarely
through the window glass –
zaps, slips between
the semi-shielding wooden

slats and you have just
as little power to survive it
as you’d have in space –
which come to think of it,
you are already in.

Not the first or last time
you will have to face
what brutal graces bring.
Inexplicability: synonymous
with everything.

.

I’m Dreaming Lately I Will Fall in Love

Perhaps it’s more than I should ask
of each day – to distill a drop,
if not of essence,

then at least of a reduction
of the brew from which I might expect
some prescience:

something with a touch less cloud –
a clarifying view: as when
a yawn induces tearing

in the eyes: a dawn, a gentle shock,
a slight surprise.
Perhaps it’s too much to surmise

that training my attention
on the spanned eternity
between the sunset and sunrise

might prod a benefit beyond
its entertainment: perhaps it’s too much
to imagine I might see the heart

beneath what’s guising it.
I’m dreaming lately I will fall in love.
I’d like to dream that I will rise to it.

.

Choosing Sides

I think,
when you pay attention,
you find

the brink of a divide:
half
of whose chasm

blasts about the orgasm
and the thunder
of the wonder;

half
bleats
a bleak blunt is-ness –

the solution to whose
business
incontrovertibly

suggests
a sweet releasing
death.

I wonder if you
choose sides,
every breath.

.

2 Short Poems That Have Something To Do With The Holidays

1

Enjoy!

End joy.

2

Slow silver whale of yearning –
welling up through space –
reflected – shimmer burning –
in everybody’s face.

.

Cool Solace

We fret and worry, scurry – guilt! – feel misbegotten –
importunately fear we’re indefensible –

but fortunately no one’s indispensable.
When we’re gone, the thing – and we – will be forgotten.

.