Bitter tea ~
vanilla turns out
sickening.
That which always was, [sic] turns up missing sometimes.
– el nuevo J. J. W. Mezun
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.
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.
Full moon night:
sharing space
with other traffic,
sharing the
sights of all around,
curving into
that window
just to—¡poof!
’Bout a week ago, as September started, a bunch o’ forest fires happened nearby.
Summer ash ~
e’en the sun turns orange.
Autumn smoke.
3 AM ~
softly devoured by
black blankets.
Breezy summer ~
ivy reaches palm out
& shakes.
Full’s gold moon ~
the only other light…
neighbor cat’s eyes.
Scent o’ orange spice tea
marrying
pot pie beef.
