This killing frost

Lumbering, awkward it stalks forward

Heavy gravity unfolds

Laying icy fingers across the land

Her touch of death cleansing


This killing frost

Blanket of white

Like the lamb

Restore innocence

and purity

for sacrifice

She is vengeful

for we have debased her tableau

Made mockeries

Boulevards lined

with ugly grey slush mounds

Our poor bones reject

her annual cleansing

and chafe in the harness

for warmer climes

Chase the low winter sun

to find where she sleeps






Dearest Theresa

She can but be mad

Ratbag stuffed in a smart suit

Hair on fire

She shrieks at the flames

of fallen iconoclasts

below the fold

Needs trussed up for gutting

Serve with Belgian pastries

and marmalade

(I like marmalade)

And wanted to mask

the sour taste of bad fruit

No consequence

Lost in the vapors

Blue mists that melt

into dark hills beyond

Escaped those captors

There was no succor

from their well

And the man who wants nothing

Can not be bought

for love or money

Mete out your punishments

They’re for your own amusement

Here in the vapors

No consequence


Ms. Kerr’s Chimney

Often still I find myself

Staring across rooftops

To gaze Ms. Kerr’s chimney

It towers proud and russet

above the crisp eaves

of her well tailored plume

Like her auburn tresses crown

her own well manicured estate

When trees are bare

My eyes descend her ivied bricks

to the window’s glowing wink

A glimpse of the warm comfort inside

and her sultry curves in silhouette

Like drinking warm cider

Cashmere and lined stockings

The way she bit the earpiece

of her glasses

Now headlights turn

cast their glow from the alley

And the house is left dark

beneath Ms. Kerr’s chimney

Whither goes the fog

Today plays the hangover suite

March of the bicarbonate sodas

The city groans

from beneath grey blankets

of damp cloud and concrete

Missed her alarm, still dozes

All quiet like Sunday

No trains, no planes

The quiet, it abstains

from being broken

by helicopter’s drone

In the dark pre-dawn

almost alone

A wheezing cough

in the distance

Disembodied voice

from the fog says

Smoke if ya got ’em

Laughter carries

riding upon the mists

to settle upon windshields

Chariots sleeping

To later freeze

and thaw again

The moisture survives

where laughter evaporates

When again the city wakes

Pavement still analog

What sounds this silence breaks

and whither goes the fog?


Threading St. Balfour’s Needle

Ad campaigns relentless

Microwave beam

to infiltrate

even your dreams

Black silk pajamas

these guerrilla marketeers

hovering wherever

your cursor nears

to ensnare

and then declare

their righteous indignation

You damnable free thinker!

We’ll lock you away

You don’t belong around people

You’ll sit all day in a corner

threading St. Balfour’s needle

The sad remains

Over now

First day returned

to real time

New year, same worries

Take down the garland

Take down the wreaths

All plastic, sterile

even their scent is fake

Artificial, from a spray bottle

like their outrage

and the faux joy celebrated

Now return to musty boxes

for attic, garage or basement

Exchanged for the real

more pressing concerns

Shelved for weeks

Come out now

it is safe

Join the scraps of shiny paper

tape residue

and glitter that shines

in carpet until March