First Week of January

Spinning room, in whose feet do I anchor the final defeat of Love?
I have searched for it in the streets of my Loisaida, in the hearts of her vodka
bottles, in the smells of dust and progress, at the back door of death.
I've written poems riddled with bullet holes, held frank discussions with Jesus
about the nature of my demises, danced naked against the winds of winter.
What remains are cheap words, dollar store memories, a scratching nostalgia.

When the muses in my life release the beasts of white noise, it is nostalgia
for the taste of my blood that sets them free. Seems I can only love
myself these days, even if teeth of sweat and spittle split my winter,
even if I am chained to their faces for forgiveness, even if I vodka
my tears inside hollow leaves, whisper for the comfort of a rooftop Jesus,
anchor my toothless grief to him like a sonnet composed after death.

Today, the alarm bells are sleeping daggers against my ear. I cheated Death
from the comfort of a white room, resting in the womb of nostalgia.
Today, I will crucify myself without reason or spears, a perfect Jesus
in search of sweeter asphyxia. My feet will bleed the conquest of Love,
destroy every alias I have assumed, trouble the throats of burning vodka,
turn faces of white roses into prowlers of an endless winter.

These hollow teeth, a dirge; my neck, a lampost swirling in deep winter;
my strides; pounding the eardrums of my beloved; my curled hands, death.
How this world of wind and green fog trembles in teary visions of vodka.
The renewal of a smashed acorn, fallen from great height, births nostalgia
for full tables. Here I pause, reasoning at the edge, ponderous trenches of love
spread before me. Here I am, leaning from the temple roof, a perfect Jesus.

I am Picasso's lead clown, stumbling in my Loisaida, a dimestore Jesus,
looking for rats to redeem. I am the savior, anathema of winter,
bedraggled jester, trying to forgive myself for passion, to mystify a love
I wish I had. There is a wobbling muse watching me smile at death,
imagining me beautiful again. On her breath a rose of nostalgia
burns, a rescue ship melting frozen eyes with the unrelenting scent of vodka.

Spinning room, to whom do I dedicate the final triumphs of weary vodka?
I have claimed the kingdom in my skull, dull mantras chanting alone, Jesus
with no congregation. I no longer hear the winds of ripe nostalgia
crashing into my cerebellum, howling chains, numb to the gashes of winter,
indifferent and untrusting until the gathering proof of immense death.
This is the reality I have created, neck-deep in the ashes of love.

Tonight, the demons of nostalgia, pouring vodka
bottles into tributes of love on the sidewalk. Uneasy truce with Jesus.
Trudging forward, living winter, unafraid of death.

shout out

shout out to dave who still cuts himself.
his life is without suture.