Snowy night, 2am, Christmas Morning.
All night convenience store, The Fort.
Coming for some hot, black coffee,
Just to escape my choking room.
Sip gently from the cup, still burn my tongue.
Watch the wet snowflakes put on a mask,
Make this dingy neighborhood look clean.
The cold puts the lie to a world reborn.
There’s a young woman standing by the freezer
Where you get the bags of ice out front.
She is lingering here, smoking a cigarette,
Her eyes distant, harsh and so wide open.
I smile at her, and she gives a small one back.
She’s strong and tough, with short, pixie hair.
Amazon and dreamer, staring me down.
I look away, sip my coffee, with its futile warmth.
I walk back to my apartment, my knit hat
Becoming wet, my lungs sore in the cold,
Making in my mind a vision of the young woman, so I can write these words now.
The beauty of a passing desire.
The dumpster being lifted and emptied,
disgorging it’s rancid trash, brackish water
into the garbage truck with clang and smash,
sounding like the cry and roar of ancient beast.
4:30 A.M., the beasts rage wakes me, in my room,
cluttered and disarrayed, to the sickly piss yellow streetlight
shining in from my bedroom window, a mocking sun,
the light of heaven gone and curdled in this world.
On the desk is the words and incantations of poetry,
last ditch hope, that I can make an angel come to me,
with her sword of fire, wings of white, and furious eyes,
or a least a kiss from her so I can fight these ancient beasts,
that roar in the night, hiding in our skins and faces,
in industrial clatter of the waking world, the noose that
is soft and sweet and slow that we welcome it’s grip like
a young and enthusiastic lover, as the ancient beasts command.
I lay in that sickly light, that ancient beast chugging on,
and compose prayers and invitations for that pure angel,
so we can fight and I can be brave and maybe the ancients beasts
won’t have their revenge in the black pool liquid of their bones.