Snowday

My mother grabbed one of my swinging feet,
sighing, “Will you hold still?” I complied
reluctantly. I sat in the loveseat

watching a white tornado whirl outside.
The shadow of a snowplow thundered past,
rattling things so violently, worldwide

collapse seemed imminent. Her great glass
swan—usually so calm, so cool, so blue—
tinkled on the end table til the last

of the Apocalypse subsided. “You
aren’t going anywhere—except upstairs—
if you do not sit still.” What could I do?

I handed my foot over as one shares
a Klondike Bar: with resignation, like I chose
to cut my joy in half, accept her cares.

I look down at her hair. I suppose,
I would have run out barefoot then if Mom
held me less firmly. When I curl my toes,

she straightens them, her fingers hard and warm.
She wrestles with boot zippers as you see
men wrestling at an alligator farm.

Blizzards are like lizards, seems to me,
cold-blooded things, all teeth and tails. The way
the wind just flops around so stupidly

is purely reptile. Not mom. I would pay
to see Tyrannosaurus going toe
to toe against her spatula today.

Wine and Snow

The Man hath released us early from work today, due to the blizzard, so we findeth ourselves at home sipping (what a sissy-ass word) drinking a very nice cote du Rhone. With steaks in the fridge and potatoes and sprouts to roast, we findeth ourselves (our mouths especially) exceeding joyful.

We are also happy to report to the world that our visit to Barnes and Noble at 3rd and 53rd (during the hour of luncheon) wast not in vain. We hath found ourselves a copy of Throne of Blood to revel in this evening*.

Taketh it away Mifune san!






*Lest the reader thinketh we are peculiar among poets in our taste for this movie, no less a scribbler than Mr. Eliot himself hath found it agreeable to his taste. In fact, the taste of Mr. Eliot intersecteth with ours in more than one respect. He hath oft expressed a love for these gentlemen as well.

As his correspondence with Groucho may testifyeth.

The Thief

This morning I woke up with a chill at 6:43am, the covers dumped in a colossal blue heap on the floor, and a slight headache: the victim of an all too vigorous dream, I suspect.

Whether it was a bad dream, or a good one, I cannot say, since I am terrible at interpreting symbols.

It did leave me with an idea for a poem though. So, I suppose, I should be grateful to Heaven for that...

The Thief

On nights like these—
So dark, so cold—
Are fires lit
And stories told,

While in my bed
My lover sleeps.
And I wake up
With icy feet.

A cough, a twitch,
Then all is still;
And one is left
To contend with a chill:

To wonder if
Humanity,
As cold as he,
Might turn to steal

My comforter
To make itself
More comfortable.
It’s possible.