face down on the ground. stormclouds lie in white snowpiles all around. i don't know if i can make it throughone more winter in this town. voted worst in show t he last two years. i got a refill on my tears-another bottle of foam yellowed cl ear. the old man twitching on the train reminds us of mortalitly, the snow every whre reminds us of the rain. and my burned and brittle skin, cracked and blister ed in the wind is testament to repetition as the impossible happens again. q: so , what's your new years revolution? a: take off those ten unsightly pounds. the snow is piling higher and your face is growing closer to the ground. raising you r glass at the office party or photocopying your secretary's ass is no less path etic than our self righteously self important tasks of barfing rhetoric on shiny table tops as our collars and turtlenecks choke us right there in the coffee sh ops. winter will not wait for you. ironically, your worst dream has come true: p ontification means nothing when i woke up and looked around, i foun that my drea ms had melted into dirty puddles on the ground
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