Everything on this gelid morning speaks only dead languages.
Change your mind. Consider it a beguilingly blank canvas.
Slather it with the random pigments of your imagination.
Go for a stroll and practice random acts of sadistic charity.
Inhale the exquisite frondescence of naked branches.
Focus your neurons on everything you have forgotten.
******* incessantly to Mozart's Requiem. Honor his memory.
Unleash your nukes. Annihilate Canada. Destroy winter for good.
Make your lover a garland of cassowary feathers. Impress her.
Concentrate on growing horrifically profuse ***** hair.
Study the nonexistent texts of forgotten Uzbecki ascetics.
Raise fearsome armies of rabid Chinese lawn gnomes. Attack.
Try to knit String Theory while contemplating theoretical macramé.
Drink cider vinegar to defuse the carcinogenic dangers of politics.
Attempt to complete a peace treaty with gravity. Concede nothing.
Build a launch pad. Hurl rusting Ramblers into low earth orbit.
Collect ingredients. Home brew ******, absinthe and aphrodisiacs.
Test drive a luxury submarine in your neighbor's swimming pool.
Smash the endless contemporary Conga Line of Dumb. Think about it.
Surrender to uncommon sense for a change. Avoid the ordinary.
Give peace a chance. Endless war has left it lonely and depressed.
Admit that everyone is well and truly ******. Relax. Breathe.
Proclaim the advent of the poetry of the apocalypse,
but take care not to write any of it down yet. Go slowly.
Tomorrow is another day to be filled. Keep some options open.

more toes in the river bank
more jaunting through the clover field
more watching the sunrise
more catching your eyes in mine

moresmilesmore laughsmorecakes
icecream
more popcorn spilling when crying
at sad movies

less work less hate
less white on walls I want
colorlesscubicleinsanity

less cell phone *******
the notifications the calls
Less taxicabsskyscrapers
concretemortuaries

more flowers
more handshakes
more hugs more sweetness
more of feeling

less of reality
Tv
moreoldmovies

more tears

My girl stands beneath a snow encrusted mountain top

Another place, another world, some others perfect winter paradigm

The morning sun breaking through, lighting her hair, her eyes, her smile,

The cold now invisible, as the warmth of her glow is captured in permanence

A vision of my mind so clear, yet of a time since past, a moment lived but now lost

For now she sleeps so soundly in her bed, in her room, one so unknown to me

Are its walls, cream, white, pink or blue, is it just a room or is it truly a room of you

How can we know so much abstraction and yet know so little of tangible things,

And does anyone ever really know the real you, the real me or is life just too fleeting, too fast

And that’s what I wonder as I lie here, while my body aches and my mind races ill at ease,

Taking my only solace in Angelika and of a time since passed wrapped up in a blanket of snow.

the stars
unravel
ink-ribbons,
the wind’s
ghost gusts,
fragile as
a spinning leaf,
tremble,
throw their voices
like ventriloquists
into the loomy dark.