PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I’m dancing around the subjective for an hour or so.  I debate the merit of money and honour.  I wade thru an empty night.  I watch snowflakes drop like pieces of a puzzle that melt before being solved.  The riddle, it seems, is its own answer.  Alone in winter, I quote Shelley, “If winter comes can spring be far behind?” Ah, a lovely thought.  Those romantics were so sweet.  A radiator of heat fills me with artificial spring warmth.  I watch the snow try to lay on bare tree branches; the skeletal wooded areas purveying cool beauty.  Winded by the sight, I sigh for a moment.

I am here so to speak just playing around; thinking:  What gives?  Meaninglessly scurrying through Dylan; faking Spanish with Neruda.  So what gives?  Mexican blankets; holes in slippers; so anyway, what gives?  So strange the night that shimmers on.  Pissarro flashing through my mind making me miss a girl I knew.  No tears!  No jeers!  It’s just a streak of timid sorrow tangoing through moonlit delight.  Rambling thru the confusion doesn’t seem to be a major delusion.  A feeling of solace rocks the bed; rattles the teddy bear onto the floor.  Céline would probably say, “I told you so.” I find it quite amusing.  It gives me a good laugh and shakes my fever.

The consuming rage is subjugated into passionate quest.  Ah, dear Céline, I don’t feel your bitterness.  I won’t permit it.  There is joy and it is up to me—up to us—to find it.  Why do you hide it?  Shallowness is oblique.  Rampant is the deaf and blind.  So what to do?  Merely pull the load.  Carry your own fucking weight, Jeffers.  Thru the snowstorm; blinding wind I go.  Twinkle on little star.  Your eyes are upon me and I am determined to keep their glow shining brightly thru all eternity.

January 3, 1989