Her raspy voice cracked the chill
Of sub life climates, ice shells on illusions
Of limitless childhood.
Her hair greyer, flatter, her body grander but more fragile.
Or just me.
a year past flung and flinging
In feverish pitches with pointless posters and presentation.
I never open the laminated menu.
I am a sog of man wilted before the waitress
“honey” that diner dose of tea and pie.
Though the bill comes so soon
another lifetime will pass, with
only fleeting moments flash in fps to slow to calculate.
Of homecoming holidays in a habitat of hounds and foxes not men.
The gravity of the moment bends space time
In accordance with mass, energy and the speed of light
which now dims to a dull aluminum, and flakes
fall with forces of asteroids when moments before they
Lifted that old melody “chestnuts roasting”
Out of my chest.
Sweats distracted, my wife peering into Titou’s plate,
Wondering like me how to fill the lengthening [...]
Shot by a cell tower two miles north
A bar appears on my i-Phone in
A square meter behind the couch.
Where only mice and this man go now.
To take in messages and momentum
As life no longer stops on the mountain.
A message beep ignites a firestorm of synaptic psychosis.
I throw on the dirt covered flannels, and dig in
To the wet freeze to slow the meta movement
And mitigate the malaise of murdered freedom
From everything I care about.
The crystals, packed like flour but crunching
the remains of branches not taken
by blizzards then and now or tempests of tomorrow.
Sliding on skulls smoothed for millions of years
shifts only smaller than the electromagnetic
Blitz I was retreating from.
I sit on a lonely limb of strong birch
and watch steam from my far away house
And not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
It is still December in Brooklyn already
As she smashes a bloodied mosquito
Having just dined on you without notice.
Mine distant upstairs.
Knowing it too balmy for snow, but willing it
As I watch the deli tree vendors through the blue and green lights
From my window.
She holds it in her hand, as I looked away in horror,
Back to a more peaceful red of Santas, sleighs and wreath ribbons.
You sleep sweets, like your daddy.
Christmas tree lights bright and beautiful
Burning, you hope, a place in your mind
To last through cruel times of childhood hysteria.
This is all normal you hear.
The bags, then gallons of lit candles lined our streets at your age.
But only for one night.
Mystics, conjurers spoke from pulpits, dinner tables, classrooms and movies.
Also from my amygdala in a voice calling to the cortex for back-up saying
“a snow flake will fall”.
And when it did, only sometimes then, but always now
The fractals luminesce and [...]
I watched priests fumble with a telescope
In my lucid semi-consciousness and laughed.
If stars could look back from
Heavens and hear those calling for heaven
As flames from Andromeda
Illuminate like Bruno’s embers.
A cosmos shattering mirrors
For the superstitious who hear the warning to
A whimper from my baby next door, I keep the dream
In a fuzz like the microwave background
of a static station.
What is he asking for?
A chance for a look too?
Perhaps to find red orange blazing in warmer
climates than our tiny candle can provide.
The clerics focus on each other
Of only a few thousand years ago,
As the swirling waves
Of Canapus, Capella,Rigel and Rigulus
Reach their lens millions of years too late
To chronicle in books of blessing or banishment.
He is crying now in low tones of early morning grumbles
Which it must now be.
I open the door and see what I know I cannot.
The blues of his eyes hitting my own
Nanoseconds apart, but far [...]
I thought better of mockery and mischief
As she sat squirming next to me, her legs crossed
Mine crammed against the textured unpleasant plastic
Holding the hatted man wobbling in front on me.
Why did she care that I laughed?
In the lights a man invoked the God of the Gaps,
Which I could feel somehow in that armrest,
Though it was nearer a magnetic repulsion
than a spirit.
She once spoke of lost beings.
Bumping into ancient rocks, not knowing
Why they were walking.
Something of particles entangled, but not as Bohr
born quanta, but outside of determined missteps.
Then why are we both sweeting.
And wondering whether this whirlwind
Of rhetoric has anything to do with his death,
or our lives.
An interpretation of jargon.
A vector for me is a line, for you and vehicle
To the cell.
Time to applaud
But at least we can change the subject.
or start one, and wait until we are home.
Alone in the dark.
Waiting to write about things said over and over.