Wednesday, February 20, 2008


across from the discotheque-discourse
cigarette smoke serene, spills out
the corner of her mouth, an elegant
circus of buffoons marching
the sidewalk, dancing to
wine-bottle music, a little emptier
each note, cheeks a little rosier
the autumn trees had burned off
vibrant green ecstacy,
waiting to settle down and die
amidst the snowdrift,
the sillhouettes, their fingers stretched
yearning towards the sky or
the glow of the streetlights.
sidewalk ceramic tables
the wine bottle is empty and
the parade has passed by,
you go quiet, walk home against
a distant discotheque bass beat, a headache
the first snowfall. In silence
the last drag of smoke
slips from her lips as her sillhouette fades
past the streetlight and there is
nothing to say anymore, and
at home your quilts are cold
and your bed feels empty.

Confession to pagan god of lunar festivals

i can confer from my dashboard period
my reasons myriad
and finishing for vanquishing
that all that has come and waited to leave after they got off
questions for those who bought off
and not for him who is set in period furniture
or those who learned in chairs of yore
-waited for the financial score
and reliance on dollars spewed across the floor
in a bloody mess
made quests for those with the best
or those with bags of 'cess
i confess, i am the one with less &
i hate to use dirty water to bless,
and that theres nothing thats mine
besides her who i try to impress
and I belong to noone less
than those who fill up my time
with silly rhymes in my head
or thoughts of books so often should be read
a blankness that should be fed
but instead, oh instead
i distill questions of who i was but am not
the world forgotten by the world forgot.