For That December Ghost in You

Her Merry Christmas
Maybe someones Mom Sister, perhaps Aunt or lost lover
that is sitting out there tonight
wishing you would walk in the door
of the kitchen
the barroom
the bedroom
and give her just one good reason
to believe/forget the world’s cold shoulders
and hard edges and all that shit she has had to eat over
all the years might have meant something
more than the FWB de-jour or an
ex- husband that barely speaks to her
the old friends that seldom call
not to mention the children that
ignore/take her for granted.
She’s listening to the Christmas music
sitting in the colored lights with a glass of wine
the tears are barely an after-thought
as she wonders why you never showed up
in her life and perhaps if you did once
why she ever
ever let you go.
Attitude House 12/99
*
Serial Visits
The whistle is the period
in this motion sentence.
Punctuating movement
calling cooling coffee steam
escaping gray minuet figure 8s
in a rocking cardboard tray.
Go ahead.
Spill it.
After all
how many years
have you been ending
your life sentence
in this paragraph.
Awareness unraveling
to some temporary core
where you define
your next visit as the
last lap of time and distance
measured increments
like rungs of a ladder.
That track bed ratio
of rhythm and ties.
How do they sing in their beds so ?
What is it with that whistle
that you still insist upon
that you hear so clearly
much less
ride off
into a sentence of movement.
Present future
Past period.
Take a deep breath
of the dark roads awash
in wire to wire rain.
Do you stop to heave a sigh here ?
In relief awash or gasp for air
15 hours after ignition.
Do we have your
arrested attention
yet ?
How can you hope to convey
this flight
this passage
A shadow’s dance
In lock step perpetuation.
What kind of ticket shall we call this then ?
Miracle, weary ritual
or merely picking
from the fabric of your reflections
a thread you wove
that called you by name incessantly.
Into a dream
from out of a dream.
Where you step
and step again
all over it.
On it.
Just past it
Inside you.
12/03 Greetings from Gridville
*
Christmas Visit Snapshot
Nearly noon along the Hudson
Brilliant light about
descending rust wine
iron crane wench hook
set in blue and white midday relief.
McNamara’s daughter isn’t coming
Johnny in Budapest
You sit in here alone
listening to the bartender
tell that the pickpockets are
using box cutters this year
up on 86th and Lexington.
Back in the Big Red Mountain booth
way downtown beaten worn linoleum
I’ll call you from the payphone
in the back near the pool table
while listening to the killer jukebox
resurrect Spike Jones singing,
“you always hurt the one you love.”
12/99 Attitude House
*
Homecoming
Can you find any words left
for the long runway and this familiar foot rest.
All day miles melted past
and you were able to sit still silently propelled
just reading and taking notes.
Your big idea of time off.
Now before the last leg of the trip
you heel toe the legs put the sidewalk square
with an older eye.
Attesting to this as I walk in the door
overheard from the boys over the pool table,
“here comes the professor…..
wonder where his footnotes are tonight?”
So you take your place at the bar and
put out.
Always remembering, remembering
where you came from.
Greenport Christmas 98 Attitude House

Nor’easter for Christmas
(for Monk)
And he started
talking in
back alley doorways
with a mug full
of parking lot teeth
as the gale wound
up her fist from
the east and positively
dared him to jump
across four feet of lapping blackness
from the aft deck
to the floating dock
gleaming slick in salt water ice
to square of that drag line.
Of course he did it.
Now the red and green
of the old Claudio’s
liquor sign flickers,
buzzes and glows
around his head like
sucker punch halo
as the flags up on top
of the poles
sport boners.
Of course
he did it.
Terrible Now 12/07
Additional ornaments pending
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