Sharp thought, cool head, sunken trout

T he s e    d a y s    I ’ m   u n-
d  e  r       t  h  e      w  o  r  s  t
o f   i t . I   s i n g   t h e  c a u-
tious language again, the co-
corico,     the   day   is   made
of   beloved,   beard,    Baby-
lon.    You    take     this    life,
you    turn    to    the    abyss,
you   click   your  heels.  Late
night       sweeps,     swallows
a      whale.       Heavy       me-
tal  winter,   Dantesque   and
gore torn then Dante get-up-
and-go.  I   bottle   the   devil
and hide him in  verse.  Day-
t  i  m  e      l  o  v  e  s      y o u
then     leaves.       The     mut-
ilated    mouth    bites    onto
w o o d,      a    l e d g e,    O n-
t a r i o.  N o   h a p p y  n e w
y e a r     w i s h.    N o   g e s t-
iculating.      We      make     it
joyful  even  if  it’s  got   cuts,
c l o t s,         i s       g e t t i n g
c  o l d  e  r.           I            r   e-
member  being  a  bird.  Now
it's     your    turn     to    reach
y o u r    h a-h a,  y o u r    h a-
n    d                i    n   s   i   d   e.