2011
12.27
It’s no longer your ex-lovers
but body parts that carry the conversation.
It’s not the drunkard
who never worked a day in his life
but the varicose veins in your left leg,
the chest pain that hits you
every time you climb stairs.
You sit in your kitchen holding court
with your cronies still living,
the good times you shared
plopped into the ash-tray with the ash,
while your arthritis
goes knee to aching knee with theirs.
It’s no longer Peter the Rat
but old age, the grizzly bear.
Andy left years ago,
taking his rusty utility van with him.
But the persistent headaches moved in
and they won’t ever leave.
Once you complained about
the lack of kisses.
Now it’s the army of pill bottles
at attention on the side table.
There’s a pill for everything
that ails you.
And for everyone that ails you,
there’s the past.
2011
12.24
He was the younger brother
sometimes we would worry about him
and the things we would find in his bedroom
or in his Internet browser history
and just say to ourselves
‘why not just delete your browser history’
he used to talk about how the moon and the sun were binary opposites
we never said anything
but like
bro,
the moon means nothing to the sun
who cares
just a bunch of cosmic-ass bullshit
2011
12.21
Stirring noodles in the pot
I imagine them
to be worms
just as hard as I can.
Dirty hot earthworms
sexing it up
in a mini Jacuzzi – hey
check us out for a nature
special – worms
hard at play
lifestyles of the rich
and invertebrate.
But they’re
really only noodles.
Just noodles
sexing it up
in a pot of boiling water
with a great big pinch
of salt.
2011
12.18
torn paper, floating in the water
bits
like dead bodies dancing with the current
ghosts journeying through the tide
like angels creeping through the sky
as dust motes drifting
white dresses swishing
blown and pulled by forces unseen
font on wet paper means very little
its purpose tumbles downward, drowning
Forgotten. Lost.
sinking, sinking
until I can’t remember what I had read
anymore
torn paper, floating in the water
bits
like dead bodies dancing with the current
ghosts journeying through the tide
like angels creeping through the sky
as dust motes drifting
white dresses swishing
blown and pulled by forces unseen
font on wet paper means very little
its purpose tumbles downward, drowning
Forgotten. Lost.
sinking, sinking
until I can’t remember what I had read
anymore
2011
12.15
driving back to work
after the first of the year and
I notice
where someone dumped
their Christmas tree
in the ditch
by the side of the road
wrapped loosely in plastic
fluttering in the wind
several empty beer bottles and
a few cans
scattered around it and
clumps of garbage
I can’t identify
decorating
the dead grass
with beautiful colors