odr

the snow is largo
on the puck
slow passes
die mid ice
easy pickins
for defensive nights

a peculiar

a paradigm of sand
 glitters in great heaps
discharged from the ocean
it builds new peaks

a pile as high as a pillow
looking soft and cool
burns and cuts
the feet and back
of tumbling fool

we emerge from a swirl
red grit choking
and coating our eyes
to the edge of a sea of sand
that stands infront of the actual
sea that we wish to enter and
trade the dust of misery
for a crust of impunity

winter summer winter

it was the dead
winter falling gently
yellow light streams
through the icicles
I dream I
hear crickets and
the rasp of cicadas
in the yard
at night

hiatus

here, the ground is crystal
dangerously so
with every every step
the gravity of the situation
is made transparent

so

some fly to distant shores
to effuse salt
and eat fruit
feet on solid dirt

bent

the infarction of strain
and stress visited upon
the same vessel
a corpuscle of time having both
states of mind to double up
and keel over

the trajectory of morning

the sun also rises
also it sets
over the same chicken
who crossed the road
to get to the other side
to lay an egg ad nauseam

debatable strictures
picture perfect lists
time has chained
both wrists to the myth

geometry in the morning

the point cannot be
is untrue
if anything it was
a sphere of uncertain coordinates
mercator projected
.
and thats just the point

you get out of bed
and put your feet on the floor
the cold of each point
the resolution of its limit
approaches a surface a reaction
to jump back under the covers
pretending nothing ever happened
.

who writes this crap?

seven accross
seven down
seven letters
seven swans

the expanse

as four walls intersect
so does two floors
or namely a ceiling
an expanse of white
with the intercepts
of rarefied lights
a spider waits
with slight crab shifts
hoping for visits with bugs
that don't exist

the river in winter

the river gets cold
and congeals into pieces
to escape
to float up and wash up
on shore
a short cut to snow

squirrel hill

when I used to walk home
through the ravine
and across the golfcourse
the wind would blow snow
and I would stuff my hands
farther into my gloves and farther
into my pockets and bury my nose
into the wool scarf that smelled
like it was one hundred years old
I would close my eyes
and imagine the white army pursuing me
cossacks on horses with scimitars and moustaches
yelling gibberish and drinking gunpowder
my pace would quicken and I would
stumble into a deep drift
and pause to pull the snow out
of my boots
with cold red
hands angry that this was where
the squirrels were not.  I didn't see any squirrels.

wise words to live by

if the glove fits
wear it
or dont
and get a blister

north of fifty

what was it
what made the first man and woman care
to settle into the snow
dig out the front door
hang the gloves by the fire
and put on an extra pair of socks in the morning?

was it summer?