mulling over the holidays.

this game is characteristic-
ally brutal. calling up and putting down
flowers in the road
they say they're for the gods,
but i've known from the beginning of days:
Sacrifice is for the people,
to justify the death of some beautiful
thing.

In the beginning of the year, we're put up on
walls, in frames, to recite that Great Story:
So you see, History matters,
while down we burn the future.

i may be sitting
this one out, my spirits not right.
i won't listen to another year
of birds telling their children how dangerous
it is to fly;
my life was meant for simpler things, and much
warmer weather.

---


i scribbled down some words about the feeling
of living in the past.
(the fury of mindless conversation,
while we fight
to finish each others' sentences,
stuffing words down throats
that do not know our hands..)

the ocean is still,
the rain too polite,
(i heard, though
you can drown
in a drizzle)


-

While i was waiting to be struck
by a love that could move mountains,
i found instead
one that could move my mouth.

I think perhaps laughter
more useful
than large scale landscaping...

-

sweet friend,
my devotion to you may have waned
with passing years,
picking its way tentatively across the miles
like slippers in the rain.

Believe me, though,
our love is strong like the ocean,
like rubber boots from Canadian Tire,
it will be there, full force, four seasons, all terrain.

and you'll note that while our letters get shorter
the salutations grow;
there aren't enough words in the bible
to say how much you mean to me.