Drunk wind.
Winter's first punch,
A knuckled fist,
Stamps a bully's bruise,
A constant cult of cold abuse,
No hat, no hope,no coin,no ride,
An icy trail, a slippery stride,
As cracked and lacquered lips
Turnstile and freeze.

Freak storm.
Snow banks and barricades,
A braille ice forms in black brocade,
Flesh hues from flourish pink,
To black and blue.
Tears crystallize and shatter,
Teeth calypso clap and chatter,
Fingers tunnel down the the warmest niche
And flee.

The dark shuffles out
With night and quiet on its back,
Winter's woke,
Up and lifts one lazy lid
Sniffs the fertile autumn stir,
One single harsh and homeward sneeze
Turns morning dew
To foggy breath and needle's breeze.

They ate supper in her bed.
After they ******.
After he'd come. And she'd come. And then he came again.

She could do that to him.
Make him rise to the occasion.
All it took was a slip of the tongue,
A soft palm and a true story
Told in a calm voice.

It was love, yes it was, pure and private,
And a warm dinner
Served on mismatched blue china plates,
Cozy kiln fired coffee mugs,
Filled with lemon water and a single ice cube,
*** toy cluttered night stand,
A massive rubber **** suction-cupped to the bedside table,
The perfect *******, eternal and soft-hard.

No one can look away from a hard ****, she said,
A large half empty bottle of Swiss Navy,
The slick residue still
Slim on their hands and slip-n-slide
Between the cheeks of her ***.

Naked knees fused together,
A limp ***** asleep like a pet,
Weather vane *******,
Her **** in obvious disagreement,
The counterfeit independence of twins
And pointing in different directions,


Their concentration for the moment was
On their food,
As a knife and fork Morse Code,
Replaced their unusual banter,
And playful conversation.

Pillows littered the bedroom floor
Her  three cats languished,
Imperial, marble eyed and  yawning
Like ill mannered, bored and arrogant guests,
Impervious to time and place,
Hang-arounds too impolite to acknowledge
The party was over,
Say goodnight
And go.

Karla told me to give up art.
You really aren't very good at it, she said,
And suggested I take up drinking full time, instead.

At least with a beer in your hand,
You project a sense of purpose, she said
Even if it's only to empty the glass.

But your poems ramble on forever,
Your short stories always stop in the middle,
Maybe you should combine the two, she suggested
And blew her cigar smoke down the front of my sweater.

We will call them stoems she said and laughed,
And challenged me to a push up contest,
Right there on the dance floor.

I declined, she knew I would,
Then let's dance with our backs to each other, she said,
And defend this art of yours, silly puzzles no one can comprehend.

I've lost the connection to my voice,
I can no longer hear myself think,
A man with a cap full of change,
Told me I might be dead and unaware.

Is that what death is, I asked him.
The moment you pause and realize
You are infinitely alone,
No others ever in the room.

Look around he said,
You've scripted each and every outcome,
Your frosty choices and slavish needs,
And now regret... how sour and sad.

I was sitting slingback on a bench,
Imagining the velvet taste,
And remembering the ritual
Of morning coffee with her,

When a hatch of warm sun arrived,
An eight minute escape,
Rush racing ninety-three million miles,
To find and flavour this essence of me.

Such harmony with the breeze,
These two friends called wind and warmth,
One shines, one shivers, both coaxing me to sleep,
Where once again we kiss, we cry,
Tease gently with our softest eyes,
And memories make minutes last forever.

How do we love after wounded heart and shatter.
What braves us to bare our trust and bold again.
It's not courage, always lent and eager to impress,
It's not fear the anxious friend of every age,
It's not pain, a mirror and pleasure's refund twin,
What perseveres when we are fractured and unfolded,
Observe your spirit,
The stubborn ghost that's wanders deep within.