Breathe. I always say to myself as the big fat Santa impersonators and trashy lights scatter the streets. Just breathe in. It's hard to pretend that THAT time of year isn't on its way. I see those trees lined up on the sidewalks with $40 signs tagged on each one.
Sometimes, I even witness the poor saps buying those trees. Why?
I never can scrounge up enough cash to pay for gifts for my friends, I'm talking nothing. No cash, ever. It's almost as though Father Christmas is looking at me and saying, "No way in hell."

Constant cycle
Shifting, so inhibited.
No change in pace.
Striking that black
Mark on
Each
And
Every
Last
Second
And driving me
to my
Last wits.
Mocking,
long spider like digits
Chanting
in the same foreign rhythm
Over
And over
Awakening
the beast in me.

Checking back into the real world
Ever so slowly.
Making the rounds,
Looking at my watch
Twice,
It has plagued me relentlessly all night.
Trying to piece together this vast puzzle of my
Parietal and temporal lobes
So muddled
My mind wanders incessantly,
So lustful after
Reality
Yearning tastefully
For my own piece of the grand
Sanity pie.

Throwing that
Big black box
of wires
off
of the bridge
felt right.

It felt

Liberating,

Invigorating.

The pavement hugged the box,
Embraced the wires
Like a mother adores her son
Perhaps the one thing
In the past year
That I have come to
find irresistible
Or even relish in?
Destroying something.
For some reason
In that one moment of catharsis,
Each and every

Can’t even avert myself from
spitting out my sins as I
gaze ravenously
at the ambiguous, obedient, passive statuettes
that line this lump of metal.
.
The sublime foliage
moves beside me
and I’m wishing
I could just
reach out
so I could feel something
real, or tangible.
Impenetrable ramparts
line my mind’s eye
my eye’s mind.
Enter catalyst,
A bitter breeze confronts me.

Pass the conductor
and all of the submissive passengers,
Pass the numerous fever red and
suffocation blue seats,

Stand on the edge of the doorway,

I could taste all of
The branches of the
Soaring sycamore
tree as
I
hit
each
one
on
the
way
down.
So low
the blood on my lips is impenitent.
Lacking morals,
I could not even grasp on
to one last leaf,
Each slipped through my dirty fingers
like the
placebos that
rest in my
crooked palm.

To wander is to live
Each morning
The sun has risen for us
The watchers
The rays drip upon us
Running down each face
We taste the glory of
Obscurity
Without a map
The road ahead
Beckons

We who brave this frost are one
Until the wintr’y frost is done
We walk these streets
With feet so bare,
But we who brave this frost are one

We who brave this frost are one
Just as the clouds are cast o’re the sun
We with faces rigid as ice
We with lips so parched
Who thirst,
But we who brave this frost are one.

We who brave this frost are one
Though snow may rise we’ll
Keep heads high and run.
We hold our hands to a vanishing flame
And curse the world
For what we’ve became.
Yet we rise up and handle
Life in one stride
With our loving father
To shelter, to guide.

We who brave this frost are one,
When frigid winds have taken their toll
To drag down our feet
Each body so slow,
We the poorest of God’s Children
Beg for one last match

You take your time
Molasses.
Things are seldom just
Clear-cut.
The unvarying
Lull of the ringing chimes,
Not such a hypnotic spell as
I had hoped for.
Scattered and
Serrated minds like
Empty wine glasses in a bar.