Alone in a giant house
sweeping after making a turnip
carrot soup. If community is the
opposite of addiction—maybe
my loneliness is self inflicted.

“Thanksgiving “

It confuses them I speak so fondly
of my childhood memories, but have
all these
problems.

Every few years,
a little girl pinches me
says get your life
together.

“Christmas Party”

Turn the sun lamp on.
Take your zinc.
Shake your tinctures.
Remain mostly sober a whole two days.
Save the stimulants.

But after Christmas, thats when things get
worse.

“January”

Every few years I enter
death. And this metamorphosis
almost kills me every time.
I repeat, though, I’d miss the
end of the world for
NOTHING. So as much as the
edge of the icy bridge pulls
my crooked feet; Im replete
with satisfaction: yearning,
and overcoming.
it is the process of the poem
emerging, not the final
form, that keeps me.

“Winter”

So i put on a heated vest
and go for a walk.
hypnotize men
while I still have some
influence.

“February”

Stop at the bar
and get a mulled cider
before going home.
When men do these things
they are rewarded.
When I do it,
I am dangerous.

Pick up every habit
you dropped.
Put it down again.

I write at the bar.
Confused about this newfound
pleasure. Keep it hidden.
Keep it only mine.

“

Nothing is ever as good as the moment
i realize a moment is good
right before it changes