there's nothing personable about wintry skies above the boston harbor
it gets ugly along the ridgepole of rhode island and providence plantations
this time of year

i ink off the dome
along the varicose veins of these violent streets

we smash more
because life indoors
is the gateway to new manners
or points of psychosis
if your boo doesn't get you
enough to get along

it storms snow where we bump

some think it's fine
or that it's by design lakes freeze over here
and mold mirrors made with angels in mind
but it's a terrific tragedy
the death of colors, inhibitions and innocence
choked away from the branches certain seasons undress

the way no one knows enough to mourn

but mother nature's a chameleon
and new england is the skin that won't keep

it's the backend of the wannabe springtime middays in may
when shorties lose their minds again
a few hours every other day
rock cutoffs and capris
because the sun showed her shine again

but she's so premature
and we've dreamed dreams before this way
against the grain
so we get high to get by like smokeheads do

but i need something sexier to wake up to
like garden birds and backyard bird feeders
american robins and the orioles
that i imagine must use their sugar water to maintain better bongs

because it's a slow burn...
the backside of northeastern calendar months

and my consequent mood swings
are 1 of 2 things that need adjusting
but it is what it is, and too cold anyway
so smiles crack beneath the pressure
like glass poets in poetry slams