It's 33 below outside
I'm traveling my sleeping bag
inside,
flying low above my mind
It's hard to keep score
of all fatalities
The cat is the captain
of The Big Ship of Dreams,
each night another story,
each day a getting up and go
The year is slowly turning over,
I'm plucked and played
Snow blows off the spruces,
standing erect
in the winds of change,
like the soldiers at Stalingrad
Life expectancy is slowly turning
away,
looking somewhere else
I lie flat to the Januarious plain,
Jehovah stumbling past
on crampons,
demented,
mumbling his disclaimer
The demagogs are left
as they are,
short-circuited
in introverted cities
blind with light
Songs of Love & Hate
leak out
of the farmhouse
at the end of the world
The wolves stop dead
in their tracks,
listening,
frost in their furs