the night before new years eve

You took in the winter landscape,
out from the cold—
so it may thaw in your sink
alongside our leftover holiday massacre.
Pour out your coffee mug full of burgundy
and hollow soggy cloves.
The endless white seems to stretch forever
until that bright night I spilt my chestnut ink,
with the precision of a razor
on the hill of my pink cheek.
I loved you like a butcher block back then,
sweeping crumbs between the divide of your marble inlay;
Sabotaging any future attempt
of a semi gloss varnish taking hold.
These nights, I find myself alone
this world conspires against the happiness
of genius.
These nights, before the last night of the year—
when friends stay up late together,
and forget whether it is liquor before beer.
Yes, I am confident I made the necessary changes
and rewound my tape before I set my bets on the counter.
Yes, I am happy with my sun lamp and coffee filters;
My naked body shivering in a cold shower,
drowning my consciousness until I cannot feel—
or think—
or more importantly, remember.
And then drip all of heaven’s grace through
twenty nine years of decomposed roots
and weeds;
The wet black earth of a cemetery;
This is the substance of my being—
and I will sip it as the foulest tea,
and I will piss it down your sink drain,
until all your winter landscape
is the color of a little boy’s crayon wax sun.

written on 12/30/2009 by: Matt Kane