Winking At The Apocalypse

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February 16, 2014

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I watch the market

I watch the snow falling

There is no difference

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Mother's Day

All the strong proud men who believe they can lift mountains or blow up cities for whom we bow in praise or tremble in fear still often shed tears and always stop to smile for her. Even blowhards lower their voices, hush and listen when told to hush and listen. All the grown up little boys trying to write themselves into the record books, still playing children’s games and collecting life’s little trophies while she quietly prays for them, and waits like a mountain, unmovable and unassumingly resplendent for them to finally realize the prudence of her lullabies. No physical impairments or fleeting misfortunes can dim her light, no disagreement about what is or is not can dilute her wisdom, no amount of missteps or misdemeanors can weaken her well-earned pride in our accomplishments, no amount of years or light years can extinguish the warmth of the hug that has saved our little lives more times than all the strong p

Well Enough Alone

Unexploited muses, satisfied arrangements – the side-of-the-road chair I painted orange just to see it painted orange now decorates the patio not doing a damn thing but hosting hardened careless drips. The singular instant before poem – spontaneous, coffee-hour visualization, amorphous near-substantiation in dramatic color – was so much more than these moldy characters in black and white. As if riderless horses doubt their own alacrity or hushed secluded fields wouldn’t flower without us, wouldn’t erupt into undulating rainbows sans some asshole snapping pictures with his intelligent phone. But unwritten poems gnaw at our bones we believe, strip us of our senses, to stand naked like naïve lovers, desperate to fill the silence. And after we have spoiled the moment with syllables and limits, corrupted in with labels, we run around madly, desperate to show this disfigured thing to anyone who will pay us in pen

Giveth and Taketh (how to love winter but probably not)

As the light descends, a lumination seemingly independent of any celestial orb, pink and dying, numinous, tangible particles of dusk in the terse air, my visible exhalations providing certitude of existence, however temporary, however contingent upon the numbing of my toes, soothing scrape of the snow shovel along the neighbor’s walkway, each glimmering pile, excavated at the cadence of fraternity, at the rhythm of my beating heart, my panting transcendence and then to stop in the darkening still, some Frostian hushed reality and gaze upon a city avenue that’s seen a century of snow shovel solidarity under old-fashioned street lights sighing in one of those idiosyncratic instants when we see beyond the Veil of Maya, actually feel the warmth of life. In the morning late for work with myself to blame - spent too much time scribbling nonsense about winter twilights - my car gets stuck in the plowman’s heap the son-of-a-bitch this s

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