northern winds of nostalgia.

An Ode to Argentina

(dedicated to the inhabitants of 1230 Saavedra)

Fare thee well my cobbled count of southern love-dunes, a spell of yet unbound,

To find a feathered city light of opulent renown.

We whisk away the day in awe of that we’ve yet to be,

Unfounded in the city’s paw, a fight we shall not flee.

Amidst the dust of crumbling times, an ocean rears its head,

To raise its glass in feast and fast and follow us to bed.

At peace – perhaps – unwound, relapse, we settle into tone,

And pray for color’s candid eye to safely bring us home.

The Coming Revolution (for Nico)

Friendship is a fresh croissant that settles on your tongue,

In savory bouts of life-release, rewinding what’s undone.

Forestall the momentary battle - if not the looming war,

Into which we fling ourselves, in haste if not remorse.

But sweet it is the spell that sings my everymorning song,

Evokes a thousand splendid rights for every lonely wrong.

So sing I will and drink I must - my gourd may never last,

And on into the night we sail - a friend, my weathered mast.

In degrees of varying altitude we bop from land to land,

In search of golden panda bears adorned in veils of sand.

Bestowing gifts, carousing cants, we dance amongst the dead,

And dream of sowing scarves with neither needle nor a thread.

Come out, my dear, into the light, the stairs have come undone,

The attic’s in the garden playing hopscotch with the bonne.

The basement’s in the bathroom, shaving, looking for a comb,

The skeleton’s are knocking but the closet’s put on hold.

The skies are ripe for picking what the earth cares not to grant,

To live a life in sin if in the end you just recant.