Man’s calendar
creeps towards another
cycle…
The sun did her best
to tell us to hit
the reset…
but we have chosen
this day.
Ok.
I will not,
however,
see the tick
of that clock.
I will be asleep.
That’s alright.
I’ve seen it before.
It doesn’t change too much.
Tomorrow will still be there
and my head
will be much better
for it.
Happy New Year.
We live isolated lives:
the thinnest of insulations
separating us
from the brutal contacts
of the sorrows
of others.
We have no idea
of the connections
that bind us,
nor the finest of lines
that divide us.
The sun
has completed
her trick
and slides back
the other way.
The ancients
feared the worst.
We know better;
all science and such….
The world is shit,
and soon to get more so.
I fear the worse
of each
new
southern
sun.
If you think about it
every piece of shit
adult you have ever met
started life
as a sweet, sweet baby.
So,
in reality,
every cute baby,
in every sweet moment
is
(Potentially)
an asshole.
So,
new parents,
“Congratulations!”
The artist took
his own life.
His beautiful girlfriend
looked distraught
on tv.
“Man,”
I thought,
“he must have serious issues,
she is beyond reproach….”
But then I am shallow.
His torment was untouchable
by simple beauty.
So, I wonder,
how ruined
has life become
when love
and security
mean so little
that you would sully them
for the simple pleasure
of destroying it all
in sadness?
I fold my arms
and turn away from the tv:
life is tough enough,
without seeing how the gifted
have thrown it away.
It’s Christmas time.
Look at all the lights,
and decorations.
They bring beauty
to the hideous
and mundane.
Within their twinkling
I am returned
to my five-year-old
self.
Children’s faces light up
and the adults reach out
warmly to one another;
to strangers.
These simple illuminations
can mask the bitterness,
cull the acrimony,
If only for the season.
I think
therin lies
the true miracle.
The tree is lit
and I water it
daily.
It drinks,
but it is already dead.
It is here, in my house,
as a symbol of life;
of renewal.
It is still,
nevertheless,
dead.
I am reminded of the natives
who believed that the animals
of the hunt
had sacrificed themselves
in a spiritual manner
for the sustenance of the hunter.
This is the thought that followed me
as I selected the tree for culling
from amongst the thousand others
crowding the tree-farm:
You are sacrifice,
a hint of dying green,
trapped inside my home
and festooned with lights
and singing
(as my chorus)
the tale of winters-promise
for new life.
The frost follows
the shadows cast,
retreating on roof-tops.
It seems to herald
the sudden sun,
even through this
forced-fading
of chilly reminders,
of cold nights,
and icy cloaks.
Ink (flows, stains). 