POTENTIAL POEM FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE

Only 
twelve noon—and already

irresponsibly high
hanging

crosstown 
bells' wagging over-

tone pealing—sounds
to you 

more
like—blithe 

octaves, perfect
fifths, forths, 

thirds,
and whatever—all chorused

together in perfect 
time chortling—

Hee-Haw! 
Hi-Ho!

Hee-Ho! 
Hi-Haw!

what'll be!
what'll be!

what'll be—
your end game?

CLARK KENT

Nervous and ungainly—the small boy
nevertheless liked to imagine 

himself—a natural
born runner.

Running up
and running back down
again—faster 

and faster—all to get better
and better,
so he thought

at being superior 
at running faster.

Until—one day he
realized he'd made such unprecedented 
strides

in that department,
that he could no longer 
detect any

notable difference—between 
those instances 

when each of
his two feet 
struck earth

and the ones
in between
when they didn't;

and all this, of course 
began—
to make the little man quite nervous 

all over-
again

that his keel had become so perfectly 
even—
as to be boring.

THE STARRY NIGHT

Of all of the kisses
she'd ever dared

slip him—this one
was 
by some measure—the cruelest

as it seemed—
almost perversely

to do the most
good for 
that sickness 
which throttled him—that

there is 
no knowledge,

only a little
glimmer;

a sympathy 
for her intelligence—

as confusion and complexity
are each
dissolved slowly,

gradually,
and easily—
into the 
very same simplicity 

feebly
called—sky.

JOURNEYMAN

So there you 
go—not even terribly

unceremoniously—
out there,

and therefore
straight-
up after cagey old

H.D. Thoreau—who sauntered 
alone

purposefully,
and never 
to actually get 

to some sort 
of holy land—
but rather, only 

to go there;
whereas—you,

on the other hand,
can't help
but detect more often

loneliness—
and fairly

acutely
at that—because half 
of your walks

still get
tallied as—the whole entire 

goddamn walk back.

BOXING

Day after all 
the red 
and green—unseasonably 

warm—
sheen of pink

and white 
and yellow neopreen 
winking

timid—but 
characterisitcally up 

at—keen
glint of men hiking

past her suantering
mom—and each of her

wobbly knees knocking
all the 

kinks 
from their—shiny new 
Hello 

Kitty 
roller skates.

CUTTING

If you think about it—your pecious mind 
is a lot 

like a diamond—terse,

sharp,
fiercepointed, and

clear—and lustrous,
the way it
elicits

such spectacle—
from its array of multiple 
interdependent planes conjoining; 

although—if you think about 
it further—only 
in the presence 

of light
does that happen—and again;
only

after considerable effort 
on behalf 
of a 

certain 
well-paid artifacer—

who sits there
and does this sort 
of thing,

over and 
over again,
all day—for a living.

AN OLD SAILOR

Sailing—
and

sailing, and 
sailing—until sunk

somewhere out there, 
halfway among—awful rat-

racers
and dash-it-all 

nighthawks
drunk at the diner—and halfway 

between slightly 
asleep and 

awake 
at the counter; that's where

he caught 
his first 

red weather tiger—

whom, rather
than holler when clutched, 

roared—or at least
seemed 

to roar 
absolutely—one single bold

red word,
which leapt forth confoundingly

in a foreign tongue 
from his 

dumb mouth—Sayonara!
Sayonara. A farewell 

maybe—to clinging; 
halfway between,

but definitely 
neither,

a good
goodbye—nor 

a decent—
see you later.

SWELL TIME

Up and down and all 
around 

an increasingly
over-
crowded square—

and despite the much slower
mollecular motion 

inherent to such frosty air—
the generous 

boom—of reggaeton;
traveling


so much

farther!
than it could before—

SOLSTACE

Discreetly, reluctant—
dead 

of December—soughing 
to yield 
its 

slight harvest;

empty grass schoolyards—bootstep 
mottled,

stiff, anemic, stone-
dead—

save 
for—on and off

the soft elegance—a
motion 
in sound—of a few gunmetal 

flagpoles pinging
in light wind—
and

of passing motortraffic—
invisibly

motivating curbside
tingling—
of

tiny Jim Beam bottles.

DISCIPLINE

In one last all-
out effort
to supplant himself,

he decided simply
to sit—and sit, 
and sit, and sit there—unimpressed;

sitting, and so, sitting and sitting—
and so-

on—sitting eventually 
so severely

that stiff, bone-
knitting boredom began 
to set in.

But then, just as the thickness 
of the feeling 
threatened to usurp 
and unseat him—a thing happened; 

and kind of thin cooling
stream of 
aesthetic appreciation 

began to leach 
and leap up from deep within him—and his boredom 
became 

so precious 
and particular to him,
that he realized

he bore it
like some—new credential. 
And so—the man leapt 

up from his seated position just as
quick 
but reluctant-

ly—feeling 
ultimately 

proud—
that is 

to say—utterly defeated.

BEETHOVEN'S FIFTH

Let's say—at first,
upon 

waking—his mind 
was a mass 

of just—
nondescript,

never-
ending clouds. Then—

came a little sound.
Quick—

what was the 
French word for clouds? 

Suddenly—
nuages,
thick, clotting

lemon-gilded 

commencing—
rolling,  
dancing—perhaps

heliotrope-
dappled—surprisingly 

callously
gave way—to larger,
less-

wonderful words,
clumped
into far more 

familiar 
Germanic sequences—each cadencing 

with the electrified thud—of
everything!
that sounded so pretty

a whisper ago,
now just sounding 
pretty—out

there
and off base.

SALVATION ARMY

Tee-

hee!

tee-

hee!—

tee-

sweet-

jingle-

hee!—giggle chilly red

 

jolly elves bells:—isn't it funny!

how 

relatively—

well

things have been going?

PARALLAX

Curious—how it's always 
the half-
truths

sprayed largest 
by the artist—
on 

a blue overused
and then
disremembered Ajax-

brand renovation
site portable john; like how—
war 

is over if you want it,
but not

that it's—actually
Yoko Ono

who honestly totally makes that song.

HUMBUG

Everywhere I go—
this slovenly 

heavenly Christmas-
green
tree of a mood—

slathered around
like—charitably far too much lemony 
yellowish butter on slices

of toast—
hewed thick and 
careless from dark gruff loaves;

making 
me feel—

first—
greedy

then
awful—because not

for the hunger
but just—
the sheer gross ameliorating

comfort
of food—and more-

over—the rest.

TRESPASSES

It's hypothesized—she's imagining 

being forgiven 

for never again visiting—

that old pagan 

crab catcher  

who did her 

a favor that night; 

praying—as I can only 

suppose 

that she would—that 

the Alzheimer's 

might 

catch fire

and gobble her up—

before 

the cancer 

has a chance to reignite.

EMULSIFIED

Sometimes, however—
it tastes like
your idea 

was better—quite
a bit earlier

before
it got thicker—back

before you stirred it, not
being able 
to resist,

until—
it got smoother, 
a little

warmer, and quite
a bit more
equilibrated; 

still tangy—
and creamier 
now, but 

admittedly smacking—
if only
surreptitiously—of 

store-
bought dijonnaise.

DON'T SUFFER THE COUGHEQUENCES

Sick
to think—if it 
just

runs
on TV—some specific 
unspecified 

number 
of times—it becomes 
a little

kiss—
this small sticky thing 
we've all 

somehow 
already 
reluctantly blessed

with—our absolute 
favorite
kind—lukewarm consent.

MILLE-FEUILLE

So you're finally trekking back
home—cold December 
gym member;

and outside 
there's these—tall pretty spruce
trees—or maybe 

faux fir 
branches wound
around tight with jam-
colored 
gold-

and-silver gilded 
garlands—to say nothing

of nearby 
dry, bright holly 
berries with baked-
on pine cones, nestled 
neat and 
sticky in well- 
appointed poinsettia plants

and wreathes—silly
cheery cherry redwood ones,
ribboned, champagne-
glittered—
with dumb apples
and those grapes
that are fake—and Jesus!

what the heck 
is this?

doesn't it just seem?—
the more festive 
a thing,

the less likely
it is—
you can eat it.

UNREALISTIC

Chilled,

rain-

slick,

and—sealed

up

cabalistic

as a

watertight oyster;

this thin 

company continues

bizarrely 

to walk— 

all the dogs.

SATISFACTION

In a typical mock-
mirthful
ploy—to be right

at the nice birth-
day party—festive pastel flecked
chunks of

come-at-
able chilly 
bluewhite ice cream 

cake 
practically falling
right out of their mouths—

the sly poet 
begins

to pull back—and let fly 
cocksure

that pie—must be

for grownups 
because—say
some gory crimson slurry that's bludgeoned 

and shoved
away inside—some arcane and off-
colored and

impenetrable breadstuff—
is truly 
nothing if not firstly—a recondite thing; 

before pausing—to hunt down
the glazed eyes
of his sugar-

spice niece 
and 
nice nephew—around five

who
of course—have even less than

no idea—
what the guy's after.

NO POCKETS

No beau—let 
alone

some bulbous chaperone!—

can swoop to save
the Pajama 
Day pretty 
little Minnie Mouse

from the gutwrenching upshot
of the fumble—

then the fall—
then the subsequent 
painful sidewalk 

crack—
of a certain secret 
hard plastic 

cartoon- 
green
compact;

unspooling now—its formerly 
rarified spindle 

of courageous-
ly Sour

Green 
Apple Bubble Tape.

POPULAR SONG

Even at the most 
bankrupt 

of bus stops—folks 
still gather;

all kinds—some clutching 
soft cups

of what looks 
to be decent hot stuff—while others

with their rough
hands rubbing their 

charming long faces—
cluck back

and forth—in
complicated tongues,

but not 
without a detectable—sweet few  

notes 
of resignation—on their breaths

regarding 
the weakly abided 

rudeness
of—our weather.

PRINTED WITHOUT PERMISSION

By December—no aroma 
stains the sound

of wolfhound
Willie Nelson's—quick pulsing noon piss

pelting—the brown
and desiccated

piles of last summer's most 
prodigal leaves.

SIGNET

Your attention, pale tired
but vaguely
florescent shoppers—one must 

truly have 
a mind of winter—to regard 

the snowman—

rotundly re-
screenprinted here
here 

and here—in perfect white pantone 

with bits of sticks
for arms—
stretched so wide! in their otherwise

quizzically 
unaccompanied 
fete of saturnalia—

and not to be—
duly 
impressed by 

the sound—
of round vowels
bouncing

magically
off the publication—
to herald

inside 
of one's personal mind—the sheer
jubilation 

of the great
phrase—Free Layaway.

ALL THE INFORMATION CURRENTLY AVAILABLE—

Just right now—
the light 

at Blackhawk 
blinks 

its eye—sweet-
talking 

colorless 
traffic
columns forward—

stirring—as if
to recombine—
each

independent 
free news-
paper page 
now flapping 

and thrashing 
along 
the raw wide
side-
walks 
of hulking
Ashland Avenue—where I

and nervous 
little Lucy

both walk 
deleteriously 
onward but
swerving—unsteady 
and delirious 

in this moment—for probably

the comfort—of both
hard

and 
soft biscuits—respectively.

GET IN LINE

Although adrift—and feeling so skinny
in the 
big city

in the rough draft
of yet another 
year of big wind—

which is currently howling 
in—from each 
of the lost directions

on a bleary 
and frostbitten 
sketch of raw morning;

you're—frankly 
just feeling
stuck in this moment;

it can just 
be so 
freezing cold to notice—

how much like
the rest
of your hapless kind you actually are

or—might 
well be—

if only
your goddamned car

engine
would consider turning over.