the frozen muddy

She is a whisper

of dawn

at midnight,

a sharp breath

of clarity

born.


I dream of nothing

but blackouts

and madness,

she is the promise

of morning

come dawn.

--

She is a figment

of my

exhausted pointless,

the last filament

of desperation's

hope

with daydreams of nothing

but delirium's

coitus,

disappearing

into shit storms

of shimmering sleet.

Damaged

down South Street's

filthy drifts devoid,

she is gone.

Leaving nothing behind

but the frozen muddy.

Season's Greetings

The air stands heavy

and thick as mold -

though not nearly so inviting -

as a sweet December

squats rotting Saint Nick


midst a wind-blown snot-dusted ice sculpture called life.

It's Christmastime

for Charlie Brown

as Linus makes love to his blanket

and Lucy mixes cocktails

of Bourbon and Bacon

for Peppermint Patty

and nobody else.

Teasing Lies of the Marmota Monax

The gusting green glow

of a Spring-like mirage

lets loose a tsunami

through my tingled being,

melting the winter malaise

just a trifle.

This rush of life

wraps me in translucent

fever dreams

for a day of fire

until the beat down

frost of February

blows back into the fore,

coating me icy cream

again into hibernation,

threadbare to rigor

left to carry on the razor wind

howling at my door.

I'm bathed in the white flakes 

of supposed springtime sunshine

at temperatures frostbitten, 

wounded and bloody.

Picturing breeze blown laundry 

hanging from clothes lines drawn now darkly

long faded into the Kodachrome 

of bygone yellowing family albums.

Standing on the precipice 

of winter's ice scarred canyons, 

I reach across to the drifting tide of flowering

just out of reach.

-----

Still, it's but a March

'round the corner to

academic b-ball brackets;

to faux celtic drunk fests

by the Erin shamrock busload;

to the pineapple cactus

vampire bats striking in full swing.

It's but a shiver or three

from here to there,

but a shovel or four

of the white cold power

up my grill.

Meanwhile, chill.