Tuesday, December 21, 2010


The First Cummings said
she rattles like angry candy.
Luna'd been shooting wet Pop-Rocks 
like BBs against the wallpaper 
of the skull that lives in your face.
Every day.  All day.  For a while.
Filling the alleys with vodka 
just made her move slower 
and all of the pills stacked like cobbles
dissolved leaving you (again) with
that Italian bitch of a goddess Luna 
her bird shot adding: tic tic tic...

Hanging in the window were 
faces that were lean and brown 
as Peking duck now looking like
wrapped hams or cheeses.
I have been sitting for too long
waiting for a light to flicker 
in my votive coffee,
a penitent holding a vigil.
I looked up to say something
and you were there
in front of the garland and lights
smiling in all directions
the Second Coming of
The Buddha of Christmas
or something equally happy
which was altogether (almost)
incomprehensible to me.

We waited and we watched the
World-sickle sliced Creamsicle Moon
bleed out blood orange and go dim.
We kept warm by expanding
and "jiggling the particles"
and stirring the bonfire
while Luna hissed
"tick, tick, tick"
flicking frozen shards of
the longest night of the year
at us like hard-learned candy.

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