12-9-04
Home smells percolate in the fresh hot biscuit bliss-drive
explode with the world in a mind too full of wonder
to be afraid of the screaming outs and ins.
Lust is surpassed in his little world that demands attention,
that’s as real as he is, and that’s as real as the lust.
He bounces with it, his teeth chatter,
he hangs on in an ultimate saturation of world-truths,
and he’s ultimately himself, safe from
the ping-pong, manically-dissected
desert cross-section of reality which he’ll find en su escuela.
Reindeer dance into the Christmas season
beneath mud-red, snowy leaves of blossoming elegant death
in surgical cigar-exhalations of the school bus, returning home
with the world’s most electric, eclectic, eccentric wildcard
in the battle against <noun>.
Chimneys funnel into the sky a hint of olden times
with ciders and beers and friends, adult and young
whispering (with yells) that they can accept it
and swish, swish, swirl into stunning radiance
when Santa Clause needs a day to rest his feet.
And it’s a Thursday afternoon in a place
that tells a trillion tales, the lucky ones possessed.
The Universe cannot exist without every other bit,
and electro-static, digital cough-syrup keeps down the whimpers
from the unwiser kin. The hearth
isn’t there, but the fluffy warmth is
with hot coco steeping and soft snow collecting
and it’s a Thursday afternoon
in a mind that knows what that means.
