at nearby train stations purple lights

were installed on platforms--which

further mystifies locality.

astronomical figures are a given, but are

grossly underutilized.

wait for it...wait for what?

every sound is the echo of another sound,

no sound is forgotten--neither is silence.

canines & felines hear each other's

hearing.

this sip of coffee is a brew for every

grain--the aftertaste of individual

conjurings, whose compaction is like

pastless deja vu.

or these hands that wear a cold draft to

the wrist, the rise & fall of phantom

gloves.

left palm indented by a spiral notebook,

right hand holding a: ProHealth pen with

two spotty contact numbers & an

address.

gratis pen omitting impertinent

information, while writing of it--sort of

like a loosely based fractal.

do these walls overthink me as I think

over them, while playing egg hunt with

the five senses?

an imaginary friend finds all five,

each with cracks that appear as if

painted.

the prehistoric glacial kettle pond sat

there like a sorceress--her bent mirror

pulled at your guts.

bored by the freezing spell--as one would

a predictable lover, her twisted mood

kept ice on ice.

the wetness of cruel enticements blew

blue smoke over its humiliated

seriousness.

as the afternoon paraphrastically

butchered a Bible verse, mallards

untaped their bills in gaseous protest.

the treed hills that sunk at the sight of

her, resounded a chopping block

earthiness.

then a schmear of seagulls undid their

bony gate, as for insurance purposes

above.

when a bench's favorite bench took down

sunset's late cancelation.

Dostoevsky's nerves were a massive

plasma globe poked at by surplus genius.

a spidery fry in a garbled clump of

hypersensitivity--to unrealized

characters.

the crystalline dryness of St. Petersburg

snow taken from the top--unremittingly.

as a depressurized silence sounds a ******

miles long.

Fydor's thumping fireplace, blinkered by

tight flashes.

Icarian quill cocked & expressly warning

at the dangers of his deep sleep.

a bevy of notes strewn about, for the

benefit of a sympathetic reader--if he/she

should discover them.

notes that safeguard against a premature

burial, his uncontrollable: Taphophobia.

that he should be allowed three or four

days to sleep off death--before actual

interment.

wide water broke in white tones--a baby

is somewhere in there.

kicking around down there, twinkling up

there.

surrounded by animals telling him they

were once human.

his father is good with his hands, but

never touched his mother the way other

fathers touch other mothers.

wisdom in white tones, a few men were

moved in place--to find what was already

found in him.

he could smell the body odor of

centurions far differently than his

parents & the animals that surrounded

him, their scent made him convulsively

weep.

then out of those white tones emerged a

breast, also bursting with milk.

followed by the prolonged musculature

of a porcelain like serpent.

with fibrous cracks scraping to its mouth

as it bit onto a ******.

a ******* invisibility--except for the

blood running from its eyes, with every

gulp of milk.

as if to mock his mother, with maternal

evil.

there it was--verdance under snow.

its geographies of memory, passively

unrecollected.

tapped into by charged revelers,

drained from the outset by expectation.

the specialness of once a year waits

around for all to go well--very well.

yes--there was verdance under snow,

that seemed to gloat.

the cold is never present, to say it's

a complete absence implies it has been

present.

though the obvious must be stated--it's

cold out there.

which sounds like the telepathy of

corpses.

even so--I put out some leftover

cornbread from Thanksgiving for the

birds, was meaning to ever since.

they must eat my sister's thoughts, now

that it's the eve of Christmas Eve.

what's more, the back of my fridge can

preserve a brighter white.

a part of me believes winter birds are

"out there" at night, do as cold does.

couple that with preholiday inner

monologues & we might have something.

silver tinsel combers...garner the stagey
magnetism of a bloated rock.
white with premadonna
enmities--a voice of mint tea.
burnt cold to the aureole of an angel--
that chews a piece of straw blown off a
seaside manger.
walking into a darkened audience--
as wind's follow through too numb to
taste salt, spreads it.
under the crackles of tires and feet, going to the head of deader stretches.
to the whelming twenty-one grams of each holiday light, save for weightlessness.
alighting against windows that respirate a scene.
where a current of air made by an originless movement greets a red candle--
its flame does not recognize.