December Poems...
... and looking back @ 2025
It’s 1/11, and I hate to say that’s an angel number, whatever that really means, but it is. Not thinking of the connection, I ran 11 miles today. 1 symbolizes new beginnings. I didn’t want to write resolutions for this year, but I like the idea of setting hedonistic resolutions like making an outfit entirely from mohair, collecting and wearing old perfumes, learning a dead language.
It is so easy to say that everything changed this past year, but I get annoyed by the inherent precedent that the concept of change projects. Maybe I feel stifled by the box change places one in. A box of lukewarm, still water, a kind of chamber, where we are supposed to emerge anew like William Hurt in Altered States. All I’ll say is that like William Hurt in Body Heat, my pre-run fuel today was a cigarette and a mind full of what ifs.
In 2025 I read 40 books, 20 less than the year prior, but the numbers don’t matter it’s about quality over quantity, which is a silly cliche but nonetheless true. Among my top reads were, in chronological order, The Complete Gary Lutz (2019, Garielle Lutz), If on a winter’s night a traveler (1979, Italo Calvino), Pale Fire (1962, Vladimir Nabokov), Mysticism (2024, Simon Critchley), The Savage Detectives (1998, Roberto Bolano), Selected Poems (1986, Marina Tsvetayeva), Phedre (1677/1960, Jean Racine/Margaret Rawlings), and The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984, Milan Kundera).
In 2026, I plan on reading more historical nonfiction and getting through (some of) the mass of books I’ve been accumulating for the past few years. No, I will not be ‘taking a break’ from buying new books. I only believe in taking a break from things that can hurt you, like drinking, smoking, people, etc. Everything in moderation, right?
Here are three poems I wrote in December.
Sunday in the City Dec 21
The man sitting
across from me
on the subway,
Manhattan bound
from Queens,
removed all of
the crumbled
remains of Hershey
kisses and other
crinkly ephemera
from his pocket
and left them in a
pile on the seat
beside him.
We all copped a glance,
maybe more than once.
He left at Queensboro Plaza
and what was left of him
were the wrappers and
the newspaper he had
apparently been sitting on.
His face was clean-shaven
but he was wearing a mask,
so it was actually kind
of hard to tell.
He wore a cap with a
wide brim and smelled.
He smelled dirty and
looked dirty and his
scent seemed to linger
in the car long after he left.
I think of Pigpen,
and realize, for the
first time in my life,
that he must have
smelled too. Yet don’t
we adore Pigpen?
We adore him even though
he leaves a trail of dust and
debris in his wake, which
seems to float around him
like an aura, a specter, a halo.
This man, similarly, left remains
of his existence for us to
gaze upon as he wandered
wherever the wind willed.
I respect his desire for
anonymity, though with
my deep red, sparkling tights,
skin tight leather boots
and knit miniskirt,
I cannot say I like to hide
in the shadows. But what
if he was leaving us clues?
What if the wrappers had
numbers written on the
inside and the paper he
sat upon had a headline,
facing once his rear but
now the world, that we
must read? What if,
among the wrappers or
between the papers,
a note was hidden,
waiting for the right
person to understand
the hints and lunge at
the opportunity. All is
so possible yet every
moment is so horribly
inopportune. Later,
on the 4 downtown,
a blind man entered the car
alongside me, but it was
was packed and
nobody seemed to notice
his disability except for me,
but I was concerned with how I was
going to hold onto the cemented
poles so I wouldn’t fly away.
I turned as the doors were
shutting and he was standing
outside the car, uttering,
nobody would let me in.
I turned inward and a man
playing Candy Crush
was sitting in the seat
clearly marked
“Disabled Priority Seating.”
I felt all was too late
and we were already deep
within the recesses of the
world when I realized what
could have been done.
What if he had a train
to make too? What have
I done? What can I do?
Nothing.
So I make it to Grand Central,
which smells strongly of
piss, and buy two bananas
for the train ride.
I eat one and forget
about the other,
forget as I fall
asleep with my
scarf covering my
eyes, my head
lolling in every
direction.
Peter Today Dec 15
I saw Peter today.
He looked much the
same but his hair was
longer, both the hair
on his head and his
thick, dark beard.
We met at the
Japanese restaurant
in town, the cozy one
with a bar that serves
no liquor. But everybody
there was drinking
including, of course,
Peter, who smelled like
a mix of weed and sage
and tobacco, same as
he always had.
He drank two Sapporo’s
and a plum wine but
said he isn’t drinking
much lately, only here
and there. It was a Monday
night, cold and icy. I had
two green teas and he ordered
for us, repeatedly. An order
of shumai, please.
An order of bok choy,
if you may. An order
of spring rolls and
sushi rice. Please
don’t forget the rice.
He let me chose the
sushi, both of which
he sparsely ate. He said
it was his first meal of
the day. The first?
You haven’t
eaten anything?
He wrinkled his face
and stroked his chin
for a moment.
Nope, he said.
He’s thin,
wearing a beat up
jacket and ripped jeans.
He’s a man of few
possessions.
I visited his apartment
up a gravel hill once,
I took photos of the
space but they
were no good.
He had an orchid
he took good care
of but there wasn’t
much else there besides
an assortment of books
a few thousand different
colored origami cranes
all stuffed in an overflowing
garbage bag. He claimed
he repossessed them
and I thought of him
scouring these upstate
streets in his minivan
wearing dark shades
searching for small
paper cranes on the
side of the street.
I’ve come to repossess
you, he’d say, gently
picking it up and
holding it in the cradle
of his hand. I took two
from his collection when
I visited that day.
They are still on the
dashboard in my car and
every so often I see them and
wonder, what is Peter doing right now?
Likely getting high and
making an excuse as to
why he’s not reading
anymore. I read too much
Gurdjieff one day and now
I can’t read anymore.
He said that to me while
we were stuffing our faces
with the various foods on
the table between us.
As he said it the light
flickered off and on.
Did you see that, I said.
That’s what I’ve been
trying to say, he replied.
Do you mean you made
that happen?
He just laughed.
He’s in his mid-thirties
and always forgets how
young I am. Do you
want to have a baby?
he asked. No, not yet.
He said when he was
28 that was when he
decided that if he got
somebody pregnant he
wouldn’t want them to
give it up. It makes me
wonder what constitutes
somebody being paternal
or maternal but I’m definitely
not qualified to make those
kind of assumptions or
categorize people into
boxes like that.
Afterwards he ordered
us two mochi, a green tea
for me (how he knew that
was the one I wanted
and that I even wanted
one I’ll never know), and a
red bean for him.
My teeth are very sensitive
to the cold but I tried my
best not to show it.
We smoked a cigarette
in his car when we left, but
he didn’t have a lighter.
His car was immaculately
clean save a very long, thin
tissue that I threw into the center
console. He drove me home
and we spoke of sending each
other writing and publishing
together and all the while
I thought to myself, how do
you survive being unemployed
and why did you refuse to let
me split the bill?
Granted half of it was his
alcohol and the items
he ordered, with
another to-go,
all of which I really had
no say in. I would’ve paid
anyways; it wasn’t like
I didn’t eat it all.
He said it’s just
something I’m
going to do now
as he shoved his
debit card into the
waiter’s face as he
walked by. He’s
quite an impatient
customer, but I suppose
I am complicit in his
actions by not telling
him otherwise.
When we said goodbye,
hugging for the second
time, I wondered what it meant.
If goodbye was permanent,
if he felt his money
was well spent.
I asked him to
text me when he
got home and I’m
sure he heard me.
I was sure he
answered and
said okay,
so why did he
never let me know and
why am I so sure he did?
Did he make it home?
Now what?
A Canary, A Coal Mine Dec 12
Outside the window
a young girl screeches
in short intervals.
I am trying to nap but
all I hear is her screeching
and her tiny feet running
against the concrete.
She runs until her screeches
are nearly squeaks,
nearly chirps,
as if she was a bird
flying deep into a mine.
Top Songs for December
Fare Thee Well, Miss Carousel by Townes Van Zandt
Silvergun Superman by Stone Temple Pilots
The Needle and the Damage Done by Neil Young
Looking Glass by The La’s
Shooting Star by Bad Company