Winter Lullaby

Kibes now to share inside white cold wind,
under our blankie with cold red toes moist
dancing a little, neat a coverlet in hot mind
to bring your winter soul into forecast joys.

Put your toes into my summer wet palms,
your spring doubts in pastures dewy green-
sweet soul music says I ain't no fool. Warm,
a pesky vortex swirls in our sole jet stream.

We're fucked into a frigid reality, but not here
because here there is skin, chilblains & healing
by the silken autumn steam of hands gone sere.
Yummy! Red into wet white again with feeling.

High pressure swirls mostly north to mostly
south. Just turn your face and kiss my mouth.

Deaf to melodies of Pan

Gone be deaf to Pan's music 'cause no cat gut
vibrates the jazzy nazz into ether where mute
the planets decorate theyselves all gaudy but
parade a pearly will surely drift by datty flute.

Just a grey wall on this one where a mute speaks
in a series of barks that crush your understanding.
It's not a dream, it's a real reach for magnesium
or some fucking nostrum to assuage freakout pain.

Gone be deaf to Pan's music gone mixolydian
and one and two and into the green underbrush
where dis bidness done. Finds a prime meridian
along a vein plumped and ready. Ain't no blush.

Nothing. Nothing, Nothing. Only a slim breath.
Hopefully, it's something simple like death-
anything else is just so complicated.

Gone be deaf to Pan's music real real gone.