The new year is a decaying theater,
plaster dripping from the wall like vomit
from a child's lip, crown
molding curling its remorse through the masses
writhing up against one another.

And there is a girl in a white coat.
She means well;
she means a white crane.

There is a girl dancing amongst the children,
her arms like snakes
and I watch her hips as they turn constellations,
the red stain of Jupiter inking up her thighs--

and suddenly the whole world a planetarium.

Tiny flowers growing from the walls become the star
of a boy, of his eye, because the calender rotates angry
December, it latches, catches, a cough in the throat.

January is her bit of phlegm, a newborn, scant
cells against the chandeliers mounting toward sunrise.

01/05/2009

Author's Note: I danced at the Congress Theater in Chicago and somehow this action caused a worldwide implosion within the fabric of time and we rubbed our eyes furious and everything was the same but for one little number budging stubbornly forward to a nine.

Posted on 01/05/2009
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