Bitter tea ~
vanilla turns out
sickening.
That which always was, [sic] turns up missing sometimes.
– el nuevo J. J. W. Mezun
Heyo, ¿you remember when you took me up to that Taco Time on Burien & —
No.
The time’s up for your tacos.
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.
Years twilight
& daylight darkens ~
winter’s fall.
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.
That which is missing, turns up sometimes.
– J. J. W. Mezun, “vanilla tea ii ( le retour de la vengeance )”, line 4.
Sunny October ~
bluejay peeps in my bathroom window.
Call the cops.
Last night I saw on my wall the shadow o’ a rose ‘hind the shadow o’ bars.
Full moon night:
sharing space
with other traffic,
sharing the
sights of all around,
curving into
that window
just to—¡poof!
Lemon drops on milky clouds
bound this wistful field above
pewter lakes — ¡but wait! ¡Look now!
¿How’d this specter enter such
verdant film now ill, when it
wasn’t there before. Before I
eat my harvest, fix on this
ray of sunlight staged for sore eyes.
Superstitions won’t sway trees;
what a day to buy tea leaves —
October Friday 13.
Saw outside a lonely time
shadow firs are teasing me
breezily. Their scents make pine
every time all kinds, seasoning.
Under skies as pure as opal,
bright night dimmed by grim surroundings,
worse by wind, won’t hush, but yodels.
Houses still for nature’s crowning.
For my birthday, I would like
tons of air a year for life —
swear to heart won’t waste this time.
