Monday, November 24, 2014



Quiet here last night drinking in a waxing moon
our waning toasts to prim distance between lip and brim
draining color from muted coverage of election returns
the raucous, the red faced, rawboned and rearing


drunk on a livid mash of jack in the pulpit berries
jaws working with poison while we read lips
until they merged into one lurid gash that lingers
on with our morning coffee, rims brined and bloodied.

I like it strong from the hand thrown mug
with sine wave runes where a handle should be
bitter despair discharged through the palm
of my hand to dissipate in a milky lens, the cataract

gaze of a soothsayer who’s seen it all before.
She mutters incantations, utter nonsense to ward off
old banality parading in new brown shirts
cackles worn platitudes about swinging pendulums

ending with a few bars of This Land Is Your Land.
She’s still singing when I step outside with the dog
As honest a ritual as you’d expect to find
On an early November morning, winter on the wind.

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