The breeze is urgent, crisp, and like a stream
of consciousness that musses thinning hair.
Autumn arrives—she settles like a dream
that brightens life before the trees go bare.
The iron-colored skies present
their plushy soft-tops with the swirled
depictions of a world
that match the furrowed firmament.
The coked-up party boys all cruise about,
shouting for more, or more than that, in cars
jetting on Hollywood past sidewalk stars
down Highland to the Sunset In and Out.
His job is nightly, smiting simpletons
in smaller hours, set with smoky haze.
He’s an assassin. He projects, like guns,
and fires bullet-words, grenades in phrase,
The blanket, wrinkled as a Shar-pei’s skin,
was useful once—no more.
I dumped it in a Goodwill bin,
the ragged texture of a sagging whore:
The drapes—as sheer as ghosts—
flutter and gently sway in time
to the soft xylophonic chime
of wind-conducted toasts.
A man delivers one inspiring speech
after another, and the nation's keys
are fished from pockets, tossed and, near his reach,
they hang and jangle in the shifting breeze.
Pretty much everybody knows
a dose of Spring in February means
its tease of warmth is fleeting.
It’s still a ways to go before the seeding