Frigid Star

This winter morning finds me in the company of a cold sun.
Another merciless progression in diurnal motion,
yet i feel no force of flame
my understanding dark
i've been revisiting my past, my formulation, the fabrics that wove my
social construction
intertextual
but mostly old letters, folded in odd shapes on college-ruled sheets
reading books that planted germinations for what are no ideas, philosophies even
what fundamental essence is there?  That thing that doesn't change with the tide...
In the eye of the maelstrom of simulacra, is there some eternal, abiding spirit?
It hardly matters anyhow.
The sun is ruthless today, stabbing through my blinds but not dispelling the
harrowing chill in this room.  
i can abide the most torrential, wind-driven darkness of night,
but it is the morning, frigid and unkind,
[ reminder that the machinery still runs, arbitrary, violent, and on borrowed time ]
that cuts me right through the glass
All-night socialite
but it is here, in the unyielding luminescence of the baleful star,
where i see, and suffer
where i am cutting the language of
[fucking years of this shit]
silent violence
in psyche, in skin
with a broken wineglass
pale and purple, spilled all over the windowsill
frozen rivulets
where i would weep for the joyless sun
shiver and wait
for the blue-lidded daughter of sunset