January is the deadest month.

While April fulfills my thirst for rain,

January is just frigid bones with no touch.

This is an empirical fact.

February carries pink love in leaky thaws;

March marches freshly green;

April fulfills my thirst for rain;

May’s gardens sting with soft dirt & honey bees;

June blooms with baby blue skies & seagulls;

July flies dark nights with bright lights;

August comes with cooling summer’s harvest moon;

September sleeps with orange leaves;

October explodes with dark winds & orange sweets;

November greets me gristly gray;

& December embers in soft snow.

¿What did January e’er have?

¿A time to leave soothing warm holidays

& return out to the cold, to bitter-blooded work,

killing yet ’nother year in time’s unending holocaust gainst those who age,

till all there’s left is piles o’ knock-off fire fuel;

a return to crippled promises for habits you’ll ne’er kill

in petty attempts to spread falling years thin?

Here taunts the Super Blue Blood Full Moon™,

cooing cooly in my ear,

<这个月算不;

from now on 2018 will be a sweet year>。

¿But when has the moon e’er been there?

Certainly not in February.

Every week it seems somebody’s promising me a “Blood Moon” here, a solar or lunar eclipse there,

& they ne’er showed themselves to me — I had to steal that image from some free photo website.

That’s right: it’s all been a lie the prime o’ the time.

While the people it doted on moved on to the sun,

I was waiting all the time,

& it ne’er reflected light on me.

¿& now it wanted me to reflect light I don’t have back?

O, ich hasste sie — that’s clear as a new moon now.

Now I notice the floods fine.

I notice now that the buckets will ne’er need to be filled e’er ’gain.

I got my break all right.

¿What was it you said?

“‘Everything is safe here’, they said”.

Everything sure feels cosy now here in bloodless January.

I’m ol’ now,

& I have no mo’ time for doubts,

no matter how true they are.

The pupil has become the prefect;

& I think I’ve finally got this role pat perfect…

a week after the play finished.

But no matter how true everything you say is,

you are not a close friend;

you are a close enemy. Remember that.

& with every birth o’ every Magical Socialist,

there comes a death.

That’s equillibrium.

Remember that.

Now, ¿who are you?

You are nothing.

Remember that.

Y si se parece que no tuve la intención de hacerlo antes…

que no sabrías, porque descuidé publicar esa poema,

al igual que descuidé todo lo demas —

habitaciones limpias y mesas con espacio para rompecabezas con 1000 piezas.

La vida es demasiada preocupada, demasiada cansada para darse cuenta a todas las piezas acogedoras.

Y los ojos con fronteras negras miran en silencio mientras notan la manera que el tiempo han perdido aquel lata de café, también.

Y ahora los tacos han vuelto demasiado fríos, demasiado viejos para comer.

No tiempo está a salvo de las purgas de enero — ni siquiera Taco Time.

Es cierto que yo había pensado en ellos —

es solo que creí que “he dicho demasiado”.

Pero dije nada. Cosas “graciosas” como sitios del web.

Pues, no estoy risando ahora.

Qué cerca y tan lejos…

Resulta que 2015 no fue tan malo como esperaba;

Lo peor siempre seguirá viniendo.

These are the words I’ve ne’er said,

& thus these are the words I’ll ne’er say —

It’s too late.

As a wise profit once said:

“While I can’t be understood,

I shall be misunderstood”.

But, sure, 2018 will be a hoot in a boot.

The prosecution rests their case.

There was hardly e’en an October.

It’s as the ol’ fable fits:

if the glove doesn’t git,

’scape your shell

& throw ’way the keys to the public, private.

Ssh…

You can ne’er revert;

you only wear worse.

As you can see,

these snowflakes on Marxmas Eve don’t click.

Only in November,

which also wasn’t there to be remembered.

It’s as the ol’ pros goad:

“We were always @ war with your hope, huh”.

No, sí, oí la canción en diciembre años pasados.

Debe haber ser 2009

— No fue un año malo, dice.

— Fue. Y no me llame «dice».

Soy solo uno,

y no puede jugar uno con dudos.

— Please die.

Shit

forgot to fill the bucket ’gain.

They won’t let me forget it

— not for 1 second.

Gotta keep the clocks running on graphite

all night,

& then it falls on us all

— ¿& who ya gonna call?

You don’t have the network to just say “Fuck it”, grandson.

You done dumped the bakers dozen with the unscrubbed bathtub, cousin,

leaving thin, few soup stuffed with supertension salt.

When in the way o’ the crabby, you learn to dig graves.

Grasping clump o’ sand after clump o’ sand...

“Everything is safe here”, they said.

& e’en in the mirror mode,

I still await my punishment for eating my cookies too early.