Winter Dissent

The season,
in and of himself,
is beautiful.  A thing of unequivocal
equality because everyone
suffers the same
for reasons they cannot control
and they all smile to you
because they know it is true,
though they do not know
it is your year round.

Have faith in man
because he will not admit he bleeds,
but he still will fall
face first, dancing,
on sidewalk ice,
the same as you.

He will still shiver
in the minutes before the heat settles and
he dreams of sleep
as hard as you do
some summer nights.

The season in and of itself
is miserable
by definition
and beautiful
by composition.

Have your tears in Winter and
the world will cry with you.
Have your years in Winter and
the world will be with you.

Guitar Song for the Less Fortunate

There was a day
when I wished to be on the cusp,
the still can smell it
starched collar steam ironed fabric
of everything vogue
before I realized,
not that I did not care,
that everything else
relevant to eating three times a day,
sometimes two, and
occasionally once,
should define my dreams.

Not dictate, but
refine the ends
such that the means
could actually mean something
more than rungs toward contrivance's ladder and
parsley leaves to an entree.

I am not asking
for some sort of golden ladder,
whatever the means present,

what I am asking of myself
is to be on a daily basis potent
as the Adder and twice as confident
in the venom hidden in the mouth there and perhaps,

win every stand off
without drawn stereo.

The Drums Die

On the corner
turn signals litter the curb
like fruit skins and jawbreakers
from kicked in quarter machines
where a three car pile up
made life interesting yesterday.

Watching traffic stop and go on our knees,
elbows at the edge of the rooftop,
the week ends
our words gone by
in the shade of the high rise next to
where we've pitched our soda cans.

Our headphones keep banging
while we nod

Pay Phone 2

Not quite gun metal, but as deadly.
Ten catcher sequence to burn out.
A penny for a takeaway.
Sharpshooter on
the books.  "Hey, hello!
Goodbye."  Finger snap.  Not okay.
Another quarter?  Chance!
Don't let me wreck. Telepathic bruise.
Button shine and spit.  The sky is reflecting
hard off of the buttons and the inlaid numbers
on the dial pad and I hope you can smell the receiver
lifting it to my ear
and putting my lips to the mouthpiece.

Pay Phone

When was the last time,

ankle deep in sidewalk salt,

tell me about goodies,

ankle deep in sidewalk salt,

punching the numbers,

metal to glove and glove 

to metal.  Not a booth.

Just a stand up

and trying to call you.

Eyes up.  Hands down.

Pushing nose first,

hoping it goes through

against understanding.

Wishing I was 

somewhere better than home.