the ice is on fire
bumper car gridlock
in the house of eternal glaring mirrors
roller derby queens in the mosh pit
dire, splintered rose of morning,
flush from the recent triathlon,
scoops tainted blood
into the shoes of passersby,
snagging their throats
with treble hooks of laughter,
inappropriate sympathies,
and an unreasonable sense
of doubtful kinship
chuffed to be chaffed,
lampooned, stranded, laid bare,
out on the hard, white, diamond beach
all fat and blubbering;
every bit as distressed
as a snow covered bear trap,
whistling a lullaby
the panting team of dogs,
recovering from their labors
at the front end of the long sled,
lined with the tusks of sea lions,
the hides of wolves and polar bears,
full of provision pouches,
stuffed with the fat of seals,
the jerked meat of horses and sheep,
the oil of whale fat, lamps
with tinder, flint and steel,
maps and spyglass
come what may,
take all comers,
oh come, all ye
entirely too faithful
in thy selves
and thy surety
when the steps to the kingdom
are many, and fraught with
the myriad challenges of the pale rider
footfalls in the tundra are
rarely heard farther than a few links
panicked and labored breaths
go not much more than a perch
hysterical screams, pleas for help,
these fall under the brutal
gales of blustery winter,
after not more than a chain’s length
and, hope, that frail desert flower,
it seizes up in the fierce cold,
after but one or two barleycorns
the unhinged advice
of prairie-mad soothsayers,
tolling on, cracked bells,
silly, cocky and cockeyed songs
of ignoring advisory cautions
repentance, penance,
cold forgiveness,
touched in the head,
white-bearded archons,
flat on their backs and somehow
flush with the skyline
gossamer wisdoms,
stitched singly, haphazardly,
threaded with baby’s breath
and prideful schemes of humanity,
pining after such translucent
and diaphanous tales
as freedom and solidarity
thimbleful of knowledge,
bottomless well of thirst
finding servitude
at the feet of the hard,
white, glass god
coarse altars of lead,
chalcedony, hematite,
heliotrope, and smoky quartz
the spilled inner workings of
snow dusted pigeons,
drizzled over wreaths of holly,
mistletoe, and amaranth
peculiar characters,
etched into collar bones
sequences of numerals, names,
and pictographic metaphors
of violent inundation
it is sometimes possible
to pilot oneself spritely
through the tiny cracks
in the walls of elemental fortresses
although, it is necessary
to be infinitesimally small
slight enough to seep in
through the inconspicuous
spaces between nucleus,
proton, and electron
the guards there
demand steep tributes
of outlandish bribery
otherwise, they will allow
a foreigner to pass, unabated
most would-be breakers
of the firm law of covalent bonds
fail to remember the signs,
and passwords,
they perish in surprise,
taking the slow slide
down the fireman’s icicle pole,
expiring on tempered lengths
of bastard steel
tumbling down,
all Raggedy Ann,
on the intolerant,
vengeful Nordic coastline
of Hagalaz and Isa,
Hail and Ice,
the penalties of cruel Thuriaz
blisters are cells of memory,
connective synapses of
recollection, the mysteries of how
horses and fresh lambs drop,
all nimble and precocious,
right from their mothers wombs
this, while the purview of warriors,
kings and commoners,
despots and derelicts
is a nearly hobbled state
of tardy incapacitation
hamstrung, in tiny wooden prisons,
little more than strips of bark
and thick switches and kindling
captured, helpless,
in thatched barracks of straw,
bundles of linen, and
distracted into oblivion
by sparkling colors
lower beasts,
nearly ready for the long journey
at the first hour and breath
the armies of men,
stumbling along immense
assembly lines of careful speculation,
as with the construction
of ocean vessels and whole kingdoms
dashing to and fro, for a few
handfuls of fitful days,
and then, flopping down,
all useless and dead,
onto the ivory floor of cathedral,
lapsing into comatose stupidity,
before the misty-eyed gentry,
all aghast and agape
in their cemetery processions
garlands and banners,
horns, and other things,
all about as useful
and as sensible as
fistfuls of frozen rain,
hurled at bloodshot eyes,
in a farcical effort
to turn back the sun
casualties of winter
casual business,
and other synonyms for
meshuggeneh
there is nothing here,
except razor and concussion
there was little else,
before
there will be so very much more,
after all the pages in this calendar
finish collapsing,
and the scorpion chicks
hatch in the spring
Medusa’s brood,
arising from pockets
beneath the deep sea
haloed gypsy birds
dance ridiculous jigs
of rain summoning
the rain, overzealous,
violently stabs the messenger,
plucks out the beans
of its collaborators
and benefactors
every catapult
needs a good story
to tell at parties
it breaks the stalemate,
gets strangers to drop their cards
below line of sight; defenses,
all poesy fall down
in the fireplace
ready for the singeing,
jousting steer of the brutal,
searing poker, and throttled
by the iron callousness of
the black bands of weighty tongs
each extraneous, irrelevant heartbeat
flutters briskly through
the epistemic landscape,
with great and needless fanfare;
cones of pine, juniper, and spruce,
arriving, on schedule,
in crisp, popcorn condition,
and announcing their candidacy
to throngs of disinterested
piles of wanton ash
and charred corpses
even if the pellucid cloak
of the frigid undertaker was not
already draped unceremoniously
over the frozen casket,
the bleached fangs
of a ravenous, predatory spirit
of long forgotten murder
is already snapped
halfway through the femur
rigor makes it silent house call
and gets fussy when its tea isn’t ready,
or prepared just right
and it just so happens that…
all the tea fell into the fishing hole,
beside that steep ravine,
about three furlongs back
no one is
going back
to retrieve it
in point of fact,
no one is
going back
the infamous baby blues
of the orthodox reaper’s gaze
are nothing but fishwife tales,
windblown, fanciful stories
for the antsy sprats
no, only the empty chasms
of endless black sockets
are what comes to collect
it is pittance of a sacrifice of time
a brief stop off,
the breadth of a wink and a nod
the somber, noiseless driver
barely slows the funereal sleigh,
little more than a knot or two
just long enough to
drop off a carcass
to the butcher
at central weigh station
at the junction of nowhere
and anywhere
a nameless parcel drop point
in a never ending whiteout of
dusty white sepulchers of
bleached curtain stillness
naught, added, heaped upon
still more naught
waiting endlessly
at the barred gateway
above Davy Jones’s Locker,
that impenetrable doorway,
never to open, frozen fast
by an ancient curse,
cast by a race of creatures
who no longer dwell in these parts,
and hence, it cannot be undone
or broken
there is only stillness
there is only the
prone slumber of waiting
for the cessation of
that which ceaseth not
beneath the pallor of this
unsympathizing row
of colorless manacles,
fastened to illusory,
two-dimensional jailhouse walls,
wandering, listless,
between the vibrant universes
of the living and the
stale, crumbling patterns
of the unknown dead
there is the sled captain,
who stands high, at the whip,
and then, there are the dogs
there is the eternal fisherman,
and there is a lifeless stringer
of salmon flavored icicle pops,
trailing in the terminal waters,
behind Charon’s skiff
in between, nothing, torpor of wasteland
and, any trace of
once beautiful mystery,
now stripped away
laid bare
before all
and none,
no more
gray shades
of lingering doubt
as to which one
is which
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 