A girl wishes the wind
would blow the hair off her scalp
Strong and abrasive, it
struggles with her like a friend
hoping to get a little peace and quiet
For once would she just relax,
enjoy some Tonight Show,
some Late Night
and step out of the penitent
date nights.

I was a tap dancer once
back in the day
I enjoyed myself rather much
until I fell down a hill
broke both my legs
awoke to much blood. Things
became quite unclear
So I had a couple of beers,
thought I'd make a couple of
friends.

People in this city
they leave you mid-conversation
Before you even get started
Look at your paralyzed talent,
see that you are not
well-guarded, and you fall on
your face.
You embrace their words.

When I was a kid
I became a tap dancer
for love. Those were the days
I could still feel
My skull fresh, new ideas
peeling out
Twirlings, stomping, toe-trappings, beats
poetries.
Tries and fails straight from
a bleeding heart--
Don't get me started on my legs
Once upon
they were there now they're gone
along with souls of shows of
audiences of happiness of
life of
everything I had known.

People in bustling cities
they leave you on your way
before they let you stay
Look at you paralyzed talent,
see that you are not
well-guarded, you lose a
good pace.
You embrace their eyes on your face.

Once upon I was a tap dancer now I'm gone
Meanwhile you better miss me
One of us is too blind to see
these artist's legs heal
Back in the day, I'd been a real steal
Now, lying here,
does it matter?
No, I still bled on the snow
I'm still very sorry
for what I've done to myself,
what I let them do to me
People are so kind
but they want so much
I climbed high, for them.
And I fell in spite of them.
Their cackles and Ahs had
stunted my growth
Limbs not strong enough to
make the voyage

By then
the love which marked my youth
had gone.

People of the lighted cities
they want you looking oh-so pretty
before you are fully renewed
Paralysis is going away,
so bring me back well-guarded, ready to fall on
my face only to rise again.
I embrace their participation in the routine.

Stuck to the wall
with a pirate cringe, positivity illegal as sin
good vibes that almost hurt
like a wife-beater's undershirt
Tough to clean, hard to keep
even when the ground is getting steep
going up

They say it doesn't slam, gives you chance
it lays the land ahead
But I find the blue skies like to turn scarlet
and slip faithless from my wake
It's all me, all me
driving a stake through every chance I get

At regaining decorum--
which is hard to keep, tough to clean
after a massacre, a true disaster
The lawful bickers
of a girl curling in disgust because...


Because positivity feels counter-productive
Not to mention a little too...

Seductive.

These words are brought to you by a petty fit,
not a frolick, nor even
a moment of in-betweenness--
A ******-darling particulate fire
going up

I'm a lost soul, fingers cold
Stuck to the wall and let out a pirate cringe--
why don't you--
satisfy me with positivity legal as sin
Give me those good vibes, make them hurt
like a lover's wife's lacy undershirt
Nice and clean, hard to keep
especially when you're in. Too. Deep.
But you're only going up.
From. Here.

Every snow day she leaves stains
falling from her broken leg.
Then her wound dries into a coffee-stain,
it's warmth wishing for spring.
A long feud--becoming crusted from the wind--
ruined her day's nymph purity.

     The spirits grow weak
while prematurely birthed
and about as far-gone as Future.
That's the woe if the kingdom.

     Her doctors BLAZE
"It will stay," prescribe a
cup of gin
for those who think they rule Sundays.
Weather, whether bronze or silver, will always
give fate a gentle PUSH.

"Write with blood upon the snow," she says
to herself and for herself.
Flitting across a brightened lawn, a girl painting
the window. Then wiping it with an old cloth.
Thought the fairy, "If it must go--if we must move--
best it be to the rhythm of her
father's blues, her mother's industrial, funeral
porch-garden.

But
Yells of travesty aren't nearly as
stagnant as the physicians say--
because their rouge, fruitful words are sign
of another day.
Seemingly still--not"

Our cafe speaks in vowels and screams in consonants.
Hipsters sing asexual love music, or goodbyes
They claim the sun hurts their eyes

    And so, if chemistry's wet, shampooed hair
Breaks the cold, white-white windows
Musicians slam as if they know-know-know,
and know-it-all, up there, playing their songs.

    Old "Steward", highly-paid employee, on break
for a drink--says, "In the 30s we got none,
needed none."
He wants to mend the windows, send them home,
and get back to work.
But he is caught in sweltering heat

    Their heat.
rosing on every person's cheek
when they turn their heads,

    and observe chemical ties.
These mates speak better syllables

Rekindling of spirit
(folding in, billowing out)
with which we end the
day,
I dare you to
leave me.
The sun begs you to stay--
Give him the week off!
He needs a dozen
drinks!
Whiskey, gin, Pinot Grigio,
the whole lot!
He deserves a
feast!

And so the London Fog
stayed.
Coat and tea in hand,
thrown onto the mesh ground
despite,
tea arriving on cue--
Shallowed issues gone
askew,
Heart-screams louder
than the heart-worms
awash across the sidewalk

Day
dark like
Night

The
London Fog
Holds me tight