The New Year

There is a boat on the river.
A spaceship, circling a sun.
We know this in the way of miracles,
in feeding ourselves dead diseases,
in believing germs are demons
too small to see. The boat is on the river
(without songs, no one singing
rowing songs anymore, not even
the children: in the end, even
skipping rhymes die, and hope with)
and we are standing on it, not two by two,
but huddled together, billions of us
crowding the boat, though someone says
from the back (there is one, always)
that the boat seems to get bigger,
though the river never does, yet it does
from uncertain angles. A drunken man
christens it Schrödinger's Boat.
And no one laughs.

The spaceship, too, with free journeys
around a star, wheeling through finity
like a children's toy: this is real.
This is true, here, now: but on it,
the people send out cries, radio smoke signals
to the heavens, to other worlds,
hoping someone is out there. Hoping
someone will help them.
Speaking stories about silicon skulls
and pyramids and vanishing people,
hunting down morals and killing the tale.
Hoping for salvation, because it is easy.
Hoping to be saved, not to save themselves.
The spaceship moves, slow, like the boat.

From a distance, it seems a UFO.
And even closer, a thing unidentified,
never given to form, just there.
Quiet. Waiting. Moving. Here.
From a distance, it could be a star sign,
part of a boat, but that is a story,
and too simple and too neat.
There is the world, and distances
growing between that words never bridge
and silence.

Winter

The child flits under eaves
underworld breath jack-frosting
leaves into windows, one pant
and then another, face a pleading
eyes do not utter

It is too cold here
There is frostbite for mittens
A silence devoid of cries, hope
Wasted expense of energy --

It is
too
real here.

Met By Moonlight

The last time we met you were not in a cage,
Each pace of rage like an anchor careless set --
Your mother explains, claiming it's just a faze,
Tied to moon phases, voice filled with shame.
Is love, after all, tied so deeply to form?
I try not to mourn -- you lick your genitals.

That Moment

The dreaming moments
Between traffic light dance
All amber-hue washed, paled
To sickly milk.

Waiting for movement
Your steps from dream to life.
The colours keep on fading;
Your smile withers.

Speaking from silence
I try to hold you here, now,
But tears have no binding power.
The moment fades
And is gone.

Manufacturing Glamour

Paparazzi creations, frozen celebs given meaning, desperation driving
The artist to explain captured images false as the real of oil painting,
The need for publicity or perish pushing from one remove to another:
-- Hop, skip. Jump!
All publicity is good, feeding goals of being seen, being admired;
Remembered in the brief moment stretched, strung out into sightbytes.

Dance By Night

Dreamstruck, dancing through white
Fields flecked with gold,
Artistic sacrifice of frostbitten toes,
Licence dancing clothed, pulling on layers
Before gods hidden in the wood like voyeurs.

Arsonist

Waving through the smoke,
I wonder if you are free, too, if the fire
really purified you, or
if it just lies, like my ex, burning
with you -- I want to say
I love you, but you shamble through smoke
like a horror movie monster
and I laugh and laugh
instead.

Creation

The praise of the reader bright damning,
Writer cringing under love of old words;
Past novels named, hailed as wonders.
But
"I've surely done better since.
I did not bloom but once,"
Lingers, unsaid --
and never quite believed as truth.

The Door

I tell you not to open up the door
The only thing that I'm waiting for
Is a wife I can adore.

I don't care if the food is seared
If you love me, don't mock my beard
Or think me at all weird.

Behind the door are secrets, true,
But it's also true I love you,
True as my beard is blue.

Waiting For Santa Claus

Every year, mom and dad wait for Santa, waking
from slumber at midnight to greet the new day.
Once we were old enough they'd wake us as well,
telling us: this year Santa will come, this year
we might get gifts, and we'd all stare at the empty tree
come the dawn, listening to my father's debates
with himself during the night, if Santa delivered
past midnight or not, and my mother saying no,
wanting to get to bed; we had red eyes, not noses
(unless we caught a cold), but Santa has never come.
I am hoping he comes to my children, because I
intend to be a better parent than my father ever was.
I will sneak gifts to my neighbours, having them write
messages from Santa -- I only hope I won't be shunned
for telling them without words that Santa hates us.