Out in the cold

The numbness of my toes gives my bladder an unknown urgency
and whenever it snows, there's an annoying old ache
in the joints of my knee.
I gotta go, I gotta go, creating designs in the soft white snow.

I shake hands with my armpits and give myself a hug
while dreaming of down comforting
in a cottage nice and snug.
Steaming hot cocoa would be much better to greet
than the steam I find rising down there by my feet
But I had to go, had to go, making dents in yellow snow.

My zipper might stick but as long as the prickling
sensation leaves my fingertips,
Oh, how I will be content raising those spirits to my lips.

It seems like miles to go before I'm home,
back from the track nature called me to roam.
Following the trail of a carriage
out passe a snowy field.
Here, they've gone a bit deeper.
I wish I had seen the man yield
As he gazed out upon this frosty scene.
To climb up in his cab would've been so serene.
Oh, how grand to sit in his place
away from the witch's tit against my face.
In a comfy chair by a fire, falling fast asleep
But there are so many miles and the snow is so deep.

Too busy at business to hitch a ride,
because of the call of nature
I was left by the road side.

Death by Anticipation

It's night. I wanna write. It's right to write at night.
-Now, your teachers, your degreed personnel,
will tell you that's not poetry.
The degreed have decreed what we read
in regards to poesy.
They don't even teach that word anymore! -poesy.

It's three a.m. - Rob Thomas says I must be lonely.
I wanna smoke and I want a Coke
and I want someone here to share this with me.
I want someone here as a friend.
I want someone to hear me and to know they're listening again.

Are you that someone?
You are, aren't you. You are just like me.
A little scared, alot alone,
...and maybe just a little horny.
By god! - the teachers shout - That's not poetry!

Then what is?
...Can you hear the crickets chirping?
Silence all around because
...because the answer can't be found.
-And I smile and down another Pixie Stix.
I'll try my best not to preach.
Don't do drugs. Don't drink.
I agree... but don't think?
I have too much learning left to teach.

I guess this could be "An Ode to An Insomniac", part two.
...but it's not the nightowls I'm talking to - it's you.
You're in there and you don't even know it.
You have a life to share but sure don't know how to show it.
You're waiting for something.

-Am I right?
Are you gonna look up from your reading and think
...I'm right tonight?
You're not into poetry because
...well, frankly dear Scarlet, because it doesn't make much sense.
Society is walled and enjoyment only comes
for the other side of a privacy fence.
You'd read it if it sounded cool.
-If you didn't have to decipher it and in the process blow your brain.
You'd like to read it if it liked to be read
but all you read in class is real mundane.
Except Poe, he's cool.
A little Dickenson and Plath.
...We could all use a little Dickenson now and then
just as we could use Calgon in our bath.
Take me away!

Plath killed herself- so misunderstood,
but somehow ... you could relate.
The degreed don't see it's scary to you and me
that we could wind up with a similar fate.
...that sometimes we feel
we're getting close to it's too late.

It's three a.m. - it is too late.
This is my third cigarette in a matter of pages.
Of course, this is handwritten and longer
and may never be reviewed by those all-knowing sages.
Too simplistic. Too unrefined.
That's life! Listen... just once, listen.
The poetry is there - and not just at the end of the line.
It's in degreed and decreed and read and regards and word and anymore.
It's in so many areas we haven't been trained to look.
In the hard d's and double b's and the repetition
...the repetition is the hook.

Hang yourself on it and free yourself from the stagnant ground.
Understand- you're enjoying this!
For once, you're enjoying poetry
...who cares if it's because you like the sound.
You're reading it, aren't you?
...and you're still waiting.

Waiting for what? What's the writer's point?
What's the poet really trying to say?
Why is "Death by Anticipation" such an appropriate title?
Why did he end the last stanza unrhymed that way?

I'll tell you why
...but you already know you feel it.
Not- you already feel you know it
- You already know you feel it!
...that's the second time I could have ended the rhyme
and used the word shit.
Just for fun, for s and g, but I didn't do it.
I want this taken seriously.
(Can you find the rhyme on the first time?)

Enough! No more prolonging what we came here to do.
- We came here to wait.
But you felt that, didn't you?
You knew you felt it and you suffered through.
In my smoke-induced haze
-with a common speech and phrase.
In all my morning glory
-with the nightowls hooting my story.
I feel I should end the next line or two
..."with a demon in my view."
Edgar Allan Poe's "Alone".
Discuss that last stanza in class.
And discuss discuss and last and stanza
And discuss last and stanza and class
And when the candied apple fun is done, kiss
...that last verse goodbye.

Because I did not come here to moan and cry.
I did not come here with a plank in my eye.
-Alert! A Bible verse! This ranting just gets worse.
I did not come to preach or teach.
I just needed somewhere and someone to reach.
I hope I touched you
...in that way that makes us giggle and unable to say.
S and g, that's what it's about
- but not in its entirety.
You feel it, I feel it, we felt it before.
...we won't touch it for sake of propriety.

They say don't rock the boat, especially if you're in it.
You may get a little wet.
...but you want to get a little wet, don't you?
We all want to get a little wet at some point, at some time.
We'd like to get wet in a reading.
We'd like to get wet in a rhyme.
-Hell, I feel like jumping in a lake and leaving the canoe behind!
...and it and wet and get get get
and you and canoe and time and rhyme.

I am now out of Coke and hoarse from smoke.
- which is the most awful habit, avoid it if you can.
I am still alone but feeling better.
Much more refreshed - and so ever much wetter.
Still a poet. Still a man.

My point - if it ever did exist,
was on the last time I could remember being kissed.
- That was not for rhyme, I had my reasons.
Behind my ever flavorful view, I stewed in my seasons.
...I wait for that moment again.
I want to want a lover -but only if she is a friend.
I want there to be meaning. Iwant there to be history.
I want to pace like a tiger and her like a tigress
until I come to her... and her to me.
I want to lick my lips and feel ravenous
...and hold back from the pounce.
I want her to hold back and feel just as trussed
...and give her want, ounce by ounce.
I want to breathe deep and scared and excited
until my lungs almost burst.
And I want her
...I want her to help me hold on and wait
until she's ready to pounce first.

And I want you to see the view
from the smokey windows of my Pixie Stix soul.
And I want your her to be a tigress,
to pace with you, all-hearted and whole.
...And in that moment, enjoy it while it lasts
-but don't pounce too soon. Lest you forget
and are one day reminded of the last time
you kissed and missed the waiting
...so wait for it.