— critic’s chair

i rode a snowfall and danced with angels, but no one asked my name? All had been white, so mirror-like that night, yet the chocolate so warm, you forgot what ailed you. People crashed through gate and cityline, to find their divot and Whit-Thoreau moment. How many times sprouted the very same anecdote, polished, told sideways, but with maiden-like tinkles, while tightening boots and anklet charms? humans are nothing, if not inventive and hide-and-seekish. Their quest for respite as strong as the work which gradually thins them.

It had been nice to frolick among the well-scented awhile, in that winsome cold. For a moment i’d felt the whirl of their dervish, no longer just holding the ascetical line, for posterity. Yet for posterity sake, i recount the exercise.

Each flip of day found the pancakes so tall, you almost cried as thickly as the syrup to see it rise. But a belly only fills till life it spends you and grows your stamina famished anew. And so the falls and climbs of escapement, they re-resume.

You drop so high also, from those endless mobile thrones when the carriage stops gliding and those heights you attain so critical. Hard you fall, hard you land. you feel made that same kryptonite which grounds the great flyers and lowers them proper. How hateful that imbalance of being a king with freezing toes (and cheeks, and limits to his bank account). The sadness of earth made one willing to bury themselves in the pristine powders of beautiful freeze below. But then the grand laughter of the merry returns. And the ride of those frozen rivers it rejuvenates another day.

Who can die, while the music it plays so eloquent? Some places they haunt you until you re-find them.

and so i’ve returned, to see what blew gems there, to learn what the white of that soft ice had hidden. But the ground it breathes something different in cadence. The trees with no leaves, say yet “none ever came covered us!” Is it even the same spot? The GPS argues yes.

but the wallowsome waning heart, it knows something different.

you can’t go home, they always say.

— can’t recapture moments — even the half-baked ones, so troubled and strange pretty

but this is only the critique of one rider. and he just important as the frost blast now vaped.

What was my name again? Don’t ask me now — it’s a bit too late — for I too have hid away, in in those delightful cold rains which clothe and rip bare the earth. I too have forgotten indeed — and almost ceased to find it — my name at all — relevant.

Some might find me and call me the “racer”. A fine name indeed, for a life lived so promptly. So soonly it hovered that the leaks they shoot out of me like Niagara in a balloon. But racer is to0 kind a word.

Perhaps you may call me “critic” instead. For that is a sadness and a harshness all its own.