the execution

while Fox News anchors vied for sound bites
I asked my empty bottle
“who decides who is executed and who is the executioner?”
a faint whistle reminded me
to forget the past
and to drink to the death of my enemies
all of whom are staring
with blank expressions
at the bottom of this empty bottle.

end of December

end of December —
another year’s worth of dust
on my guitar case

in so far as

the rain poured
from silent rooftops
into angry sewers
while sparks
from an abandoned cigarette
faded and died
at my feet.
“my son”
I muttered.

winter drizzle

winter drizzle —
an old girlfriend pretends
not to recognize me

a murder of crows

 

a murder of crows —
high-tension wires criss-cross
in the purple sky

 

photo by mmm

 

Christmas rain

Christmas rain
the dog’s footsteps
and mine

Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve —
a child dreams
of Christmas Eve

Three beers into the conversation...

Three beers into the conversation, I acknowledge that I am lost. Every trace of dignity I once had is now a quaint metaphor for a bygone age. Every obscure reference now raises a blank stare, not even the feigned recognition of an hour ago. I am, if I’m to believe Mapquest, approximately nowhere, which leaves me adjacent to nowhere else, which leaves me no closer to my destination, which is... undefined. We rehearsed our hurried goodbyes over and over again but ultimately never acted. Instead, when the cameras finally rolled, we stared into skyscraper starlight and turned away from each other’s tears.

dry tap

dry tap —
the jukebox plays
“Satisfaction”

threat of snow

threat of snow —
when will I see
my sons again?

one week before Christmas

one week before Christmas
a three-legged dog
sniffs the trash

winter overcast

winter overcast —
my sons argue over
who will talk to me first

winter overcast

winter overcast
I lose another game
of solitaire

mid-December

mid-December —
what I really want for Christmas
is one more week

trainyard

the trainyard at dawn —
new graffiti
on an old caboose

cricket song

cricket song —
my granddaughter’s
tiny fingers

a dusting of snow

a dusting of snow —
I wake up
before the alarm

Righteous Hope

Righteous Hope Witt was born to my daughter Rebekah and her husband Jason at 2:29 am on December 4th. Mother, father and baby are doing wonderfully. The new Grandpa is feeling old...

first snowfall

first snowfall —
everyone calls me
“Grandpa”

snow in the forecast

snow in the forecast
I downplay
my recent promotion

December fog

December fog —
too sleepy to sleep
on the train