Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

Her empty words are thought to carry weight
She’s a valued bullshitter, highly paid
Rumors and gossip salt her trendy talk
lies to truth to light gradations of gray

I see a tallow winter landscape from the train
Travel through various gradations of grays, browns, and whites
Today, even the vivid colors fade, duller reds, washed out blues
old paint, a certain worldliness, oily and shrewd

I tried to get close to her, my error
In a world infused with spirit gods and goddesses
witches like her are sometimes hanged –
her anger is stark with no set landscape

I box with ghosts from my thoughts and her soul,
like a town that awaits my late arrival
Don’t tell me you adore me, when you don’t,
admire me, when you don’t, or love me

As the sun loses energy, it radiates and gets hotter, not colder
As life lacerates cruelty, it can’t be made right
Like a great dead star, it’s the nothing from which I come—
Stark shallows urgently crave – and go

-March 7, 2011-