January 22, 2016
for hat and what
hat with a double you
wear that, yes, what will do...
crisp ale-ing it as gnaw boned Winter
wears the long night in pierce howled ravenous
rapacious, poem says, almost asking,
"did you guess, knives would have souls...?"
winter as a wobble turn stubborn hearth play
acting in the sweeps, circled and away
winter is ritual, sway almost(s), orbits
insides the domiciles, when death is lattice
when floating or falling, window leaning, dreaming
when burning through November, still stacked out back
yes, we're winter too...
we're watching what goes on here, warming our bones
at the near edged end of the world, in a poem perhaps too...
where I hunt lustily, after midnight
for some kind of thievery and inspiration
some fleeting permanence
that comes from listening
finding music by accident
between the murder and birdsong
of humanity, some melody
I can find myself with
clinging to a scent
of my own self progressing
while the world teems
too far past wild
to ever know
to enjoy having
a soul and seasons
to play in...
I improvise portents, when this cold, hence the
crisp ale and the cutlery imagery part of the program
that's all folks...