November is déjà vu all over again
hanging out in the weak sunlight
anywhere where the wind is broken by jagged brick walls
microclimates and social cliches
fitting in and belonging
that’s pretty much a warm blanket feeling
November is a trench coat in the rain feeling too
as the wet leaves slide beneath your boots
the way a tossed cigarette just goes out and dies before you step on it
fingerless gloves and rosary beads
chilled lips and hot breath
wool scarves
the hangman’s back in town
that’s the beauty of November right there
being warm in the cold
huddled with friends
talking about dreams
what will be
leaning on pillars and walls
before the hammer drops
and the beating begins
again
some go back into their pale halls
sickly obedience
desks in row after nameless row
learning tricks
a few of us drift along on our ways
waiting for the sun to settle low on the horizon
and the night comes on
the night comes on like a prayer or a psalm
there, the flickering windows of mindless delirium
rooted before that useless little screen
dancing with the stars?
you could be out dancing with yourself
survivor?
you could be out watching the homeless
settle in for the night
reality is not tv
reality is just outside your window
there are no bombed out buildings from the war here
only torn skin and broken hearts
scars and scabs hidden beneath sweaters
November hides
life lived on the edge
there is art and music
love affairs
treason and plot
a war for the soul
a war for identity
and the streets do not lack for gunshot and bullets
commanders and commanded
the passion of loyalty
hard rain ain’t a million miles away
it’s on a poet’s lips
it’s in a poet’s dream
November comes
as a wisp of steaming breath hid out in the bushes
feral eyed
watchful
fearful
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