and in our battle of words,
yours succeeded to wade its meaning straight across
and with a solid one at most,
i have once again been rendered lost

Sparkling, silvery, shades of grey.
Skin, shivering, brain of dismay.

Trees, trancing, bare naked sky.
Patiently, pondering, preparing to fly.

Wind, whistling, a dancing swoon.
Sounds, serenading a sparkling moon.  

Secret , system of the seasons.
The rhythm of winter needs no reasons.

Seasonal affective disorder,
Justify this infective inorder.

If you had diarrhoea
got caught short, took a ****
in that drawer where you keep all your cables
and bits tangled vociferously
then later discovered you needed
a spare micro usb,
so you had no choice
but to roll up your sleeves,
that would be this Monday

January thru
January blue
Looking out at dull skies
Wishing you'd come to an end

January thru
Winter's true
Drop in mood
Energy subsides

January thru
Spring's crew
Planning to take us all
From the depth's of the darkness

January thru
Slippery cue
To throw us off life's course
Let's end this remorse

The late January 2 p.m. sun is as follows:
    - omnipresent
    - ten thousand photon hands per body
    - shining through souls;
         >  flesh has no stopping force if completely unraveled and dissolved in the sweetness of spring;
             the promise.
         a spring something that wafts through the still fresh year air,
     the one that gets animals and humans alike frantic,
  pink in patches, rhythms beating,
resonance seeking of matter against matter,

Surface vertical,
         horizontal,
--Phasing--
& Finally
Upwards when we merge,
having found each other,
released in sync
into the sky;
Light
and heavy with the journey.

And then I kiss you again.

January will not be missed
but stubbornly,
mist it is

I've got the January blues,
The Monday heaviness,
A kind of Tuesday Sadness.
I've got the Wednesday empties,
The Thursday lonelies,
And a Friday full of Madness.
Saturdays are cold and grey
While Sundays seem to slip away,
And the week recycles into blandness.

I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.

We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.

I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.

Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.

“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.

Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.

Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be ​​affable.

Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?

will my hands ever forget the habit of clawing my own wounds for warmth? i lay my vulnerably human skin on sun-dried poems written to breathe, breathe, breathe in — breathe through january's oppressive cold.


i breathe out a mouthful of asphyxiated flowers