winter is coming, it was bound to happen,
my fingers started their funny itch of cold,
little nitrogen piranhas with atom-speed randomisation
eating me up, on the face of it -
but there was me, a bench,
doing optic paralleism, in common tongue going
cross-eyed
looking at a street-lamp -
**** man, it’s not exactly blurry,
well it is...
but my left & my right eye is looking at the same thing
and it’s doubled-up...
meaning the other idiotic thing -
one eye explained means out eyes translate
things upside down... two eyes... synchronicity...
two eyes work on the principle of us seeing
cross-eyed, two eyes work on the algebraic principle of x,
"going cross-eyed" is actually optical parallelism,
as ever counter-intuitive...
when it gets real cold -
you got fire -
and that’s music to my soul -
when the lights get low - we burn brighter -
woah woe -
even in darkness -
well, i love walking the streets in the dark,
drinking my beer -
i get to cool it on my winded bends,
i get to remember the one suicidal girl
who talked me on msn messanger when we were at school
almost everyday,
in between playing multiplayer age of empires ii,
me chosing the teutons building in new york squares
for the idle place to grow organic cucumbers and raising
chicken abortions...
to be crushed by the persians with muhammad entering
with the elephants...
dude... my farms! my villagers!
i asked the girl to see a movie with me,
she declined...
i walk past her parents’ house these days...
pretending to smoke cigarettes in my ~37°C unit
breathing out the coiling cold...
watching the cold strata of the universe in constellations
hooded:
doing the opposite to narcissus, finding a god
in love with his shadow,
only because the shadow feeds less perceptive critiques
concerning body mass index...
the god who fell in love with his shadow
found it to be warm... unlike kant who found it as cold.
so yeah... tomorrow i’ll buy me a pair of gloves...
stop the speed of nitrogen piranhas biting me...
and execute a poetic non-linear explanation
of what newton might have said via pythagoras
away from photonos speeding in the equivalent
of a light droplet like in the egg-timer or clepsydra:
a single photon droplet is equivalent to a year in
our pentagram perception - light years away...
now the crossword:
κλεπτειν / kleptein, 'to steal' and φως / phos, ‘light:’
so we get the instrument of measure - κλεπτφως / kleptphos.
i had to do it, i did steal james merrill’s book recitative
to read it on the way through greece, macedonia, serbia, hungary, slovakia
and then to katowice in poland to see my grandparents...
originally prompted by the words of my father:
‘we’re starting the 2012 olympic village project, you’re starting tomorrow.’
i smoked a joint and got paranoid, flew
from london to athens before all the three graeae took
to prophecy, with me
shutting my eyes, pointing with my index to
the future drinking absinthe in the streets of athens
with the ****** junkies walking shooting up
with children in buggies.
well i saw belgrade enveloped by stereoid snow on the flat plataeus
of serbia, away from the macedonian mountains.

I don't need adornment;
I don't wear a ring.
I sing in the forest;  no one
need hear my sorrow sung.
I am my own audience;
I lament the dying limbs.
My discernments are sufficient.
I see the world as most others don't.
The squirrels that scamper underfoot
keep me company;  bluebirds offer
the recitative. From a distance, I
descry an old farmhouse where a
family long departed once raised
corn and three sons. Cows and
chickens milled about. An old
pick-up took the family where it
needed to go. Now it sits abandoned,
paint chipping, rust increasing with
every rain. Barber's "Adagio for Strings"
wafts through my mind;  tears slowly
slide down my cheeks. There is a
creek nearby that tries to console me.
The yellow sun meanders through
white clouds and blue sky. I cry more.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I wait for hours at a time
In single file lines
Just waiting for my name to be called
Even though I know deep down
I'm not even on the registery.

I fail all my tests
On which I really tried my best
And my buckets of tears
Won't ever be enough
For the numbered sheet of paper.

I hate that I make life a movie
While somewhere in reality
I'm actually standing all alone
In the dead of winter
In the middle of the night.

I wish his face could go away
And come again another day
One where I know the difference
Between a drizzle
And a dark raging storm.

I hurt for sticks and stones
The blood and limbs and bones
All of which do not belong to me
And are on someone else's property
And no where near my address.