face down on the ground.
stormclouds lie in white snowpiles all around.
i don't know if i can make it through one more winter in this town.
voted worst in show the last two years.
i got a refill on my tears
another bottle of foam yellowed clear.

the old man twitching on the train reminds us of mortalitly,
the snow everywhre reminds us of the rain.

and my burned and brittle skin,
cracked and blistered in the wind
is testament to repetition
as the impossible happens again.

so, what's your new years revolution?
take off those ten unsightly pounds?
the snow is piling higher
and your face is growing closer to the ground.

raising your glass at the office party
or photocopying your secretary's a__
is no less pathetic
than our self-righteously self-important task

of barfing rhetoric on shiny table tops
as our collars and turtlenecks choke us right there in the coffee shops.
winter will not wait for you.
ironically, your worst dream has come true:
pontification means nothing

when i woke up and looked around,
i found my dreams had melted into dirty puddles on the ground.

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