24, December, '14

 

1.   

 

 

There were no dreams of a woman’s grace tonight, and for that, I am thankful. That word, thankful, has become all too distant- as distant as a loving touch, or the warmth of someone else’s breath upon my chest; but so has giving a s**t to begin with.

 

 

2.

 

 

I push the ugly sheets away and hear the familiar crashes

of whatever it was I was doing to stave off a dream-

On the floor lays a copy of Alice Monroe

and of course, Hemingway- strange, but fitting bedfellows.

I trip over a remote, then a guitar pedal before finally

I make it to the bathroom to collect my thoughts

About phantoms, ghosts, and this all too familiar empty,

Lonely, Christmas Eve.  

 

In the distance, with the door open, I could again hear

The distant musings of another Latin Diva,

And she sounded sad, yet elegant and seductive

 

 

 

 

 

 

3.

 

Speaking of phantoms,

The phantoms that dance across the backs of one’s eyelids

Were at endless play in last nights’ sleepless hours

Beneath the reading light I forgot to kill-  

Morphing into this and that, a face, a shape-

Lightning streaking, but igniting nothing-

Some of these, shapes and faces I cared to see,

some I shunned but could not escape,

-and some that will haunt me the rest of the day

 

4.

 

I step out for my morning smoke to find its raining,

But not exactly raining, just spitting- you know the sort,

Just enough to piss you off one way or the other

But what else did I expect? It’s Christmas Eve,

Just another day in the life of a loner.