(i was just a customer once.
now i listen to these albums,
try to pay attention to simple times,
get the whomp-whomps until i can’t stand without staggering.
don’t want to be left alone.
my body’s a pale broken stick at a midpoint angle,
teetering at the mercy of a live action set
behind a hollywood mask.
improvisation upon crowd participation.)
another charcoal christmas.
mr. all night…
warm christmas, cold beach,
gray rain puddle…
white christmas, cold beach,
i’ve lost another day, gained an extra life.
rainy christmas, an internal flame struggling for oxygen…
struggling for oxygen to take up.
“this is going to take a while.”
(graduation to another stereotype)
(i hope no one sees me sneaking this typewriter to the next room)
(see further modification)
someone else’s model.
all these christmas angels are stone.
all these christmas angels are statues. (collecting snow)
they do not flinch at the tears of well-dressed secretaries.
they don’t budge when you shuffle past. (see cry)
they do not repeat the secrets you whisper.
(some say black and white’s a good look)
(i say with a splash of red)
(or with a touch of gray and navy blue)
there is a light…
there is a white.
if i could be quiet,
if i could speak my peace.
if i could’ve kept this mess quiet.
if i would’ve minded my space, manners, and peace.
if i would’ve kept my silence and ate my vegetables.
(meet your eats)
it’s all brand new,
it’s all age old.
whole lists of lists to catch up on
and it’s back to these statues of angels.
they’re only half-there, (similar variation)
they’re only as real as you allow them to be.
keeping a straight face with concrete wings.
how can they allow the city people to walk by
with the world on the rocks and the snow on their shoulders
and salt on their cheeks while they just sit there…
to think there’s someone listening on the other end of this seashell,
this ocean… this movie screen… be it record player or telephone…
might as well be a million miles away.
i wear this coat like a statue….
like a prophetic addict in a movie or novel…
like a responsible city pedestrian in the cold…
my breath shows itself in the air as if i have something to say.
this day is a russian california painted blue.
these christmas days are russian californias tinted blue.
writing’s a task… i have heaps of reading to catch up on.
we’ve all got our cups to fill…
i’m looking into the eyes of this statue…
is anybody there?
freedom in the summer,
romance in the winter.
(division of labor)
labor day weekend
and all the unfilled air in-between,
and all the unspoken air,
the air unspoken for…
the people in line in the airport wing.
or in the warehouse behind the office.
here’s to another year of canadian l.a.
cups to fill…
and staying up late…
and us all just hanging around…
and off to huntington or morgantown…
then return home for the holidays.
here’s to sticking around
and another refill emptying itself into us.
another year lost, another extra life gained.
and this one’s to just being around.
the other end of the line…
just remaining around, being up all night.
the gray beach,
the other end of the white christmas sidewalk.
here’s to anyone listening…
the scroll in the bottle, in the cold sea…
the 1900’s postcard,
the 1900’s white christmas mailbox.
first open/close handwritten in blue ink on folded paper on christmas eve…
the rest written by typewriter on a separate piece of paper on christmas eve – christmas morning
i pictured people tucked under their nice coats and tightly wound tears behind eyes walking up concrete steps to what looks like a courthouse on a cold blue day with snow flurries. as they approach the first step with their hands in their pockets they notice an approximately 2&1/2 foot tall statue of an angel at eye level. that’s the christmas angel that’s been sent to save them… bound in dried cement