Look around and see the strange opportunities that assault you from everywhere. See your breath freezing in front of you, see twenty-four hours in a day.
Talking fast and putting a peculiar spin on everything you say. When the world doesn't look so bleak, that's when you start looking for liars.
Look in the mirror, look for excuses, look at the past, and look at the future. Do something, quit pretending.
Pink as a blazing cloud at sunset, that's her hair color amidst the black coats, black pants, black shoes. What the hell is this city in mourning for?
Same song, same story, same bumps, jerks, stops, and starts. Same beginnings, same ends, and I would bite my finger just so something would be different, but I've done that before.
Bald baby with no cap, does your mamma understand about cold? She has a bright red coat, dark black scarf, and a strange expression in her eyes the same as you see when you look at a dumb-happy dog. Good luck, little bald baby with no cap.
Whatever happens, just don't stop and wonder what it is that you've gotten yourself into. You stop, that's when you get caught, that's when whatever it is that you've gotten yourself into becomes where you are, where you're stuck.
Just keep moving.
I step outside, it starts snowing. Standing on the subway platform, the snow's just starting to stick. Not stick, but stick around. The wind blows and it's like ghosts dancing across the platform, dancing happy because the sun won't be out to chase them away, not today.
I look out the window at the taxi cab graveyard, everything dusted, almost like powdered donuts, but not quite. Dusted like an old memory, hazy and lacking full color, dusted like when you try to remember a past lover's kiss.
I look out the window, all over the place because you never know what you'll miss. There's a big plastic face mounted above the door of one apartment building. It's Santa Claus, all huge and plastic and lit up by some high-powered internal light. He's smiling, rosy cheeks and pink nose, enormous and he looks frightening--drunk. Not like he'll start fighting at any second, or like he's going to break things.
Drunk like maybe none of the women ever stand close at office Christmas parties, like maybe Santa's hands get a little too busy and maybe he gets a little too carried away with the mistletoe, that big plastic face moving in, smelling like snow and outside and booze.
Around the corner, there's a stuffed snowman sitting on a recliner on someone's porch. He looks like he's enjoying the weather.
Snow, skimming over the flat rooftops, still looking like ghosts, but these ghosts have purpose and it gives me a quick-creep feel as I watch them flow over the edge and down onto the limited humanity that roams the sidewalk this early.