Winter Anger
I really enjoy the place
when it’s like this
The streets are empty
The bars are less full
Everyone is for once
not trying to meet
against each other
because there is snow
behind the glass
of an old TV set
who today feels
its good ol’ bones.
Admissions
I’ve always been irreverent at exactly the smallest times
They call it an unkindness of ravens
or a conspiracy, a conspiracy of ravens
Drinking after a hangover
is tedious, maintenance drinking
between bouts of nausea and the subtext headaches
The hangover is a week old and I’m nursing it at a funeral
It’s called a venue of vultures, when I was young I didn’t know that
I can remember the first time I admitted to myself
that it is quite hard to be a good man and mean it
but that no one really quits the ape anyways
A wake of buzzards sounds somber but dignified
and I wonder every time I throw a bottle away
if I failed the world by never recycling
“He was a good man,” we say
“I never knew anything was wrong, did you?”
“He was a brave man,” we say
“You know, he didn’t advertise his pain”
