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I was not aware of ChristmasOr of its bells & dreams
But an attack of snow just nowWakened meI labor intensive against drifts
Against waves of white 
With a whale of a story
Shoaling cars trees homes
But do not call me Ahab
Call me Claus . . . Santa Claus
Shaken like a snow globe
Stirred like a frothy punch
I hunt happiness
Through snowballs ice & snowflakes
A steaming pod of dreams pluming
North South East West
Thar she blows!
I am Kringle . . . Kris Kringle
I no longer care who I am
Nor express my veins
Or what I was
I no longer aspirate
Quick wind will make a change
I hang about & wait
I have no viewThe rain the wind the silver sightingsExpress dreams express showersStrong winds to come to obscureA leaf the edges of meToss bending with every gust
Counting: 15 out of 16 years pastto Yankee playoff possibility:Pirates? Padres? And The Indians, e.g.?(the list of small- & medium-marketteams & venues is as long as owners' ledgers& a dis-service to fans)So don't argue:That your team owners may be committedto money to profit not to bases countedor games won: to profit sharing& so much for quality & paritySome teams are designed to contendothers merely to make money
The sun strongSetting orange-hot variableis a shaft-of-hand offeredlaid down with imperativeTo step onto sea-pockedelectrum memory to goto where the sun argues . . .
Excessive but alive
Even when gambling
With cards time future
Gino knew
The wax gates & run off
Of bronze & little things
Otherwise forgotten
Then suddenly furious
He'd sweep an oak table cleanDeclaring "This is shit!"
Brushing all off away &After lunch his observations
Explosive amid plaster molds
With plastic cup with white wineWith gravelly remarks
He sometimes exaggerated
Sometimes jeweled
But always with pride & patina
His work & word cast finished
A tough place to be
Is the pitcher's mound
10 inches higher than home plate
wheel work hub
of an elongated arch of bases
A tough place to be
When fans cameras & commentators
descend centered on a dome of earth
on an arm & delivery
to a hub/to home plate
A tough place to be
When all works or doesn't
head & heart mind & body
focused this moment
a pitcher on the mound is
A tough place to be
This new season fans freshCards & fantasy leagues lushEtched stroked boastedIn any hemisphere any ballparkAny afternoon or evening darkOf baseball thinking & reactingThe art of pitchingOr sudden art of batIn any hemisphere any ballparkAny afternoon or evening darkArguments mouthed at a bara workplace or home arepart'n'parcel of baseballIn any hemisphere any ballparkAny afternoon or evening darkIs baseball fetedAppetite whetted
At a MetroNorth stopcocoons monolithic backlit by western sun
no longer trees
Now Consumed wood-bones
armatures hidden
by a bright sunltsmother of green ivy
There is no consumption
like religion
a "speak to me" institution
resolving everything
contritely buttoninglight & dark ongoing
life & ambition enveloping
into a pocket conveniently
She knows she's crazyOn her meds staggering aroundWith dog in towShe knows sometimesSitting on my stoopTalking to herself then to the dogAbout neigborhoodAbout her missed opportunitiesAbout love missedAnd she criesAs eastbound traffic swoops byThen lurches offDragging dog memoriesFollowing the traffic
A knife like no otherTip'n'tang bone'to'handleAnd a handle to hold ontoTo hold on to a thoughtThe handle itself courteousCarved of you so rare a dream
'Twas the time
Of posting gratuitous email
of facebook and of such
of shoaling up mentally like snow
against & over cars burying them
. . . & aren't we glad
To escape humanity hugely
like great waterbirds running
the surface winging flapping
scooping up to an overview
. . . & aren't we glad
Of white clumps mounds below
of undefined shadows
ignoring a waving hand
insignificant amid the chatter
