Sean Cole’s The December Project 2021

Welcome to Sean Cole’s The December Project 2021.

From the time I met him in the late ’90s at the first of what is now-called The Boston Poetry Marathon, Sean Cole and I became friends and he one of my favorite poets. After the fest, Sean would mail me the occasional postcard, and I would inform him how much I truly dug his writing on them.

In late November of 2001, I sent him an overnight package with 31 self-addressed stamped postcards, asking him to write me a postcard a day for the month of December. And he did, and continued to do so for the following three Decembers, 123 poems in all (one never made it through the mail to me the first year). A year later, Boog put out its only single-author perfect-bound collection, The December Project, one I’m still damn proud of to this day.

Now, last month, November of 2021, 20 years since that first invite, I met Sean on 8th Avenue in front of a McDonald’s by my apartment, with a new invitation. This time Sean is emailing me a new poem each December day, and for the month’s final poem he’ll use the one self-addressed stamped postcard I provided him, an old flyer for our Boog Year’s Eve 2001 show at the much missed C-Note, where Sean read that first December’s final poem to those gathered. 

I once gave Sean a blurb where I said, “If I could only publish one poet for the rest of my life it would be Sean Cole.” More than two decades since I met and fell in love with him and his poetry all I can say is “Ditto.” Enjoy.po

https://wordpress.boogcity.com/2021/12/04/sean-coles-the-december-project-2021/

—David A. Kirschenbaum

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The December Project 2021

By Sean Cole

December 1

I was 50 when I wrote this. It’s about December and her

concrete gargoyles cupping themselves “down there” 

for entertainment. Not sure what Prince meant by “parties

weren’t meant to last.” The man-boy, or mannish-boy, in me reaches 

through a portal in my aorta for two mezcal negronis 

and a stoag. Joe Pernice called them “dirts.”

“You got a dirt?” I thought he’d said “dart” and averted. 

Prince was 57 when died which means I have seven more 

annos to write 1999. A man can dream, as can the kid 

inside him. Tomorrow’s third hypodermia volume 

looms Cheshirely like a kind moon. A girl who 

threatened me one time is set to get to the bar fire

early tonight to nail us a seat. For now I slide 

Brooklyn-aimed underground, clutching 

the pearl onion in my dreamy martini glass.

December 2

A man just boarded the C train in order to sing

that old chestnut about Jack Frost and I want to 

whap him. Moisture mooses up my nose and beard 

behind my mask. Some kid is right now riding 

between cars like the train cops say not to 

over and and over, recorded. I can tell you there are

no trees anyplace close and I need my hands 

on one to feel natured to something, some force. 

It’s a need, an eagle, I never have. A city park

floats within each specimen canned up down 

here, I know. A person is a kind of park, I know — 

a whole arium. But it isn’t enough right now.  

If a felled and naughty angel is our dinosaur

it makes sense the sullenness contained in this 

jar. But we’re all parks. I’m a park, you’re definitely 

a park. Curated but also doing the phantasmic work

of cells. Soon I’ll emerge at street height and breathe 

the dressy air of Herkimer while I roll like a sweat 

crescent down an asphalt brow hot with needle fever.

December 3

Heading back Manhattan-ward. 

Man napping in electric hat. 

A billboard crawl across his cap 

like a brow-sized Times Square. 

Red words scrolling right to left. 

This is what they say: 

“Check This Out… 

‘The visitors are NOT our friends!

They’ve come to RAPE our planet and KILL us!

They are NOT who they appear to be!’ 

That line came from what 80’s mini-series?

The clue is on my jacket. 

Tap me and tell me if you know.

Don’t be shy.”

December 4 

JFK bar for afternoon beer pre flight 

to Sandy Eggo and, later, Los Angry-less.

I nervous-travel only and tremble ‘til

I’m safely gate-side or plopped at a nearby

hop fountain like this one. Jet Blue terminal

is dull and brine-less, everybody 

still tippling their Cokes except we 

few, we happy band of six souses lifting off

like binge clouds. When an albatross has 

an albatross around his neck does it, like,

notice? Or is that more just him, like,

visiting his mom? I’m happy

unaccountably given how different life is

now all my folks have died. There’s no one

stopping me. No stopper to this health-less 

tub, though I still run some mornings 

and even look up on occasion. 

December 5

Baldly I aim my pointy orange boat to the loose 

ocean. By “baldly’ I mean my scalp is clinging 

to its last vestiges: smidge kingdoms falling 

unwitnessed. Yet here I am. At 50. In a craft

with black “skirt” stretched over the body hole.

A paddle in both hands. James aims his needle

vessel seward also. We claw the jetty water past

our asses, gulls above like noisy cut-out stars. 

Fishy people sentrying the boulder wall. 

The vastly open, when we hit it, sounds like fear. 

To me at least. James an old hat at this, keeps

dulceting “you’re doing great” type noises. 

I don’t know. Half an inch of plastic’s all that’s

condoming my butt from the Pacific. 

Snowman twigs for motors. A smoker’s heart. 

An indoor sort. Today I learned that grunions

loft themselves upon the sand at night to lay

their eggs then somehow scuttle back to flappy

surf. I guess if they can leave their living

rooms for a minute then I can also.  

December 6

Black’s Beach. We saw nude people.

The birds weren’t wearing clothes either.

United on the broad sand, birds and boobs

modeling equality. Many more of the former.

Tide so far out they’ve gentrified new sand.

Sand of new hue. “Why’s this sand so gray?”

I say. “What sand?” says James. “This,” I say

pointing down, “It’s blonder over yonder but

this sand is black.” Then it dawns on me.

“Is that why they call it Black’s Beach?!” I say.

“No,” he says.

December 7

They say it never rains in Southern California. 

They are wrong. It does rain. It does not pour.

More the sky just sours, infant sadness moistening

your scalp. This day of chairs is long an studious, 

an animal in pants. I won a staring bout against 

a dog. We were well-matched but Scout blinked

first. Embarrassing how thrilled I was. Things 

in Sandy Eggo vacillate from still to rapid

within hours. Traffic backs up in your veins 

then rushes. Hot and cold running weather slowly

thrills you with its indecision. The way

tentative affections will wild your blood – 

especially that gush and trickle, gush and trickle

of the unkind brand of candor. Sometimes

I feel so guilty I could just spit. 

December 8

I’m on a train ride reading Train Ride by Ted Berrigan. 

Andrei gave it to me, inscribed it “Take the train 

with a grain of salt, Sean – you 50 year old poet in 2021.”

So I am! Surfliner from Sandy Eggo to LA. Total 

other coast from Ted’s and 100 years after, minus half. 

What am I doing on this train? I should be… no I should be 

on this train. Next stop San Juan Capistrano. 

Couldn’t find it on a map yet here we are! 

There’s no other word for “conductor” so I’ll say 

the conductor sounds bored as shit, intoning stations. 

Coast is clear but hazy too, oh, it’s ’cause I have 

my glasses off. Ocean lapping at the toes 

of beachy lovers. Don’t they know I see them 

necking on a bench? People write about lovers

‘cause they’re inspiring. In this shit world,

to kiss and cuddle up and even make new Teds

and Andreis and so on is just daffy faith. I love it. 

It’s not my sport but what luck to get to 

spectate from this shiny coach. Some mom 

and dad and toddler brightly waving from 

the sand just now as we caboochooed past.

December 9

Everyone’s said sorry and explained it never 

rains like this. I know it’s me that’s brought it

here and feel potent like a full fog. “You don’t 

have to worry,” I fail to say to them. “You’re 

welcome. You can tell me any lie you want – 

I’ll still wet the edges of your envelopes with 

my thin spell. Everything could ruin with just 

one spill. Chair season carries its holly bells 

astride it. Deluge ukulele strains. One plink

then another. Then a wink. Pause. Then 

the heavens mailing letters to our shoes. 

December 10 

I’m watching Kelly in the waves.

She paddles out. They bash her. 

But she stays. Soon distinctless 

from the other shadows frogging 

in the breaks. They sit and wait. 

Tips high. Patient. Then a lot of 

spider-leggéd chasing. A spider 

on a snake. Then — arrival. One

flash of victoring the tide. 

One ride. Then utter decimation. 

The ocean always wins. 

Me, I’m chilling with the gulls. 

We look for clams. Dead ones.

Or ones that won’t complain. 

My gull-friend over here she’s

on one leg. A yogi of a bird. 

It’s weird. The others puff 

their stuff but she demures. 

It’s regular on shore, in air 

even. We, none of us, have 

truck with all that wet – the wil-

derness of swells, its chills. 

Leave that to these finly people

challenging the seas.

December 11 

The moon is out. It’s 3pm.

Swallows peck by, practicing

their swallowing. One puffs 

himself (or her-). I don’t care. 

“You can look as tough as you want,”

I tell it — from my beach chair.

Sun is major butterer of surf, still.

Waves are perfect quote-unquote. 

They sure sound perfect. White

noise machine called ocean. 

Bottle this. Bottle me. Bottle my

illegal beer. Bring us to the moon.

December 12

You may ask yourself

“What magnificent genius invented the outdoor shower?” 

And you may say to yourself

“Well that’s a stupid question – everything used to be outdoors you idiot!” 

And you may follow up with

“Yeah but I mean… since there’ve been doors.”

December 13

I’m at the bar at LAX with the poster 

of Carlos Santana looking down in orgasmic thrall

at his instrument. We’re all leaving LA — all

of us. Where else can you claim to know 

at least one small aspect of everyone’s plans.

These planes — they send us like sound 

waves down a wire. Our voices, silent, but 

transmitted with our whole bodies attached.

We are embodied voices. Vehicles for words.

The white-haired woman beside me gets 

on her phone before ordering a drink, says, “Fine.

Fine, fine, fine.” Hangs up. Bartender tells her, 

“Be right with you.”

December 14

Trying not to get blood on this poem. Bashed

my knuckle on the turnstile trying to make

the C — it was the E instead. Just want 

the inside parts of me to stay inside. Feel 

feverish with a home Covid test in my ancient

green L.L. Bean backpack. Pleasure 

travel sure can end with a loud thud. 

December 15

In Response to Mary Elizabeth Frye (Or Clare Harner Lyon) 

Do not forget that I am dead.

I’m not asleep. I’m not in bed. 

I’m not a candle in the sky.

I’m not the eyelash in your eye.

I’m not the tuchus of a cat.

Why must I even tell you that? 

When you wake up consumed with dread?

That’s ’cause of me! It’s ’cause I’m dead!

Feel free to curse the clouds and say,

“Why did he have to go away?” 

A jillion poems won’t bring me back. 

I died. Accept it. Have a snack. 

December 16

Warm night. Warmed over 

sausage pasta two weeks old. One

year ago my Ed was in decline. 

I call him mine. Knew him 

all my years but six. I’ll keep 

enumerating things until I’m old. 

It’s how I get my arms around 

a chill. “How men get” I almost 

wrote. It’s what sons do, some, we

genderize our instincts during death. 

There’ll be more death; it’s coming. 

There’ll also be more plants. I’ve 

got one. One. Despite my skills 

it’s huge. Needs new pot. Damn poets. 

We’ll find our way to pasture somehow.

December 17

Calm down, soldier

I say to the manic sort in the train 

car corner but only in my head. We’re 

the same except all his thoughts come 

out. Rocking back and forth like a live

event in 2019. I’m on a date. 

Or I’m on my way to a date. It’s the city that 

no matter when you leave, 

you will be late.

December 18

I’m thinking about Bill who died and Gerrit who 

died. I’m sitting here spooning too much yogurt into 

the toddler of my belly, thinking of my mom and dad and stepdad

all dead. You like to think they’re together 

somewhere, that Ed and Gerrit met and are

discussing Spinoza, whoever that is. (Just

looked it up, good to know.) That mom 

is giggling at some dumb pun Bill 

made, his tilted gourd. How big is 

heaven, or jannah, or nirvana 

or wherever anyway? As big as America? 

They’d all land in the New England 

of heaven I’m sure and still be 

rivers away from each other. How’s 

all this work? Who should I talk to?

December 19

The long fart of winter is upon us. 

Fear is back. As is the certain itch

of a tailored suit when you’re seated in a dry 

kiddie pool on a roof. Not so cold out and yet 

can see everybody’s breath. Like the distant gold 

fog exhaled by saints. Once

I knew a man who could see yawns. 

“That one’s green,” he said to a student. 

You squelch your loud exhaustion like a sneeze. 

At least the evening sky is clear. Stars out. 

Some of them are planes. Moon as high as

anyone else in Brooklyn tonight. 

December 20

I’m going to think about moose tonight and their aggressive 

mousey-ness. They hate to mess around due to hip dysplasia. 

At least the ones I’ve seen. Okay the one I’ve seen and, okay, 

he was Canadian – what else? (He? Someone.)  This year

I’m 90 in hip years and 17 in moose years. We trundle 

rocky paths in city parks, our ears cauliflowering. We hear 

all, and hear moose especially, no matter where 

they are, with our spider hearing. There’re 10 moose

in the woods standing one behind the other so it looks like 

one moose. What do they write about in their borrowed 

Moleskines? I saw one smoking once and another chomping 

nutmeg. We were told – in high school – chew nutmeg 

and you’ll hallucinate. ’Course moose would need a bunch 

more than us and prolly just become sullen. The thing 

moose hate the most is when you decorate them  

for the holidays. Like, I’m here all eating 

“try again” popcorn – that is, hoarded kernels 

from the bottom of the Orville bag reheated – listening 

to Miles Davis and enjoying the Christmas fuck 

out of myself while also thinking, “Wouldn’t a moose

with cheeks for roses and a crush of tinsel in his antlers

be just the best right now to waltz through?” and, duh, 

no wonder they’re hostile! Noiselessly hostile. Moose

hate us and they also hate merry-making. They’re not

mirthful. And we’re always tryna mash mirth 

into their fronts; they’ve had enough! No wonder

they’re hecked in the hip flexors. You think they 

got to be that hobbled on their own? Are you high?

December 21

I don’t have no clothes on in a sexy way. 

Now that ruin, I mean winter, has begun in earnest

I’m the pale, white thermometer of Brooklyn 

and the world. You stick a single toe, a soft swab

out the covers every morning into December’s 

nose. It stings but there’s a succulence in that. 

Every day you weigh the air for bad atoms. 

Stray mail is always carpeting the stairs. You have

to parse the sad stuff from the worthwhile grist 

and decide which matters. ’Course everything 

matters at some point and is matter always, even

the prognosis you composed in the park grass

with your writer’s foot. It says: “No 

road technically leads anywhere.” 

December 22

Yeah today’s a palindrome but all days are. 

Awake, white curtain tied at its navel, make 

brown drink, lift body with hands, splash 

belly and arms, enclothe, leave hovel, walk 

shoe dogs to loud heartbreaker, wipe 

glass and plastic picture fang, fall out

of head of rattlesnake, thrown brain 

at gerund factory, shove cathedralized ideas

into pinch purse, leave, come, leave, come, 

leave, don’t look at Gomorrah, regret 

something, buff crosswalk with foot rubber,

drop soft self down manhole, glue butt 

to gut of steel cheese grater, dick with 

flat grenade some more, exit blink hotel, 

stamp-stamp down tomaine strip to bendy

me-place, grace mansion, doff trou, suds

type-ticklers, brow drink, tank 

all memory and color and amorphia 

into Morpheal clam shell. Evoke. 

December 23

The city is scary but so is this place of dark 

garage trees where every sound is meaningful. Smoking 

outside Aunt’s place, neighbor crunches ice grass at foot 

of driveway. Flashlight and dog. Could be anyone 

at first. Drove five hours here exhausted which is its own 

kind of scary. Shouldn’t complain except the guy 

I used to smoke with nights like this is dead, yet

standing beside me somehow. I imitate his voice 

just to normalize the moment a bit. That’s normal, right? 

Imitating the dead while smoking alone in the cold

blanching at cracked branches and mild illumination? 

There’s a brand new baby inside and wine candles.

December 24

First year “home for Christmas” means 

my sister’s place. First thought upon waking

in her guest room. Should count my blessings. 

Snowy house where hugs and gravy overflow,

where your presence is assumed. Just hard when 

three ghosts hover here all night screening  

Christmas past and present, contrasting 

them. We all stand and nod, not solemnly 

per se, just with explanationlessness. 

Once I was a thought – a taut wire between 

belly buttons. Now, an outfit 

on a couch stuffed with photographs.   

Everyone knows what happens next. 

December 25

One year since they evaluated Ed for in-home 

hospice. Santa brought an oxygen tank and hospital 

bed. They said, “If you need it,

the fire department can come and lift him.” The men

in red. But he stood and lay down on his own. 

Didn’t stand again. Eating had stopped already. Then 

Hallmark movies. Then talking, mostly. Spoke

in quick, dismissing swipes. Then liquids. When I think

of that week, and what it took, I don’t want 

Christmas to happen again – and also 

only want it to be Christmas. To be that close 

to him, always. Ed alive. His short, mute breathing

enough. Today I ran in the rain. Four miles. Glasses

fogging up. “Long and Winding Road” came on. My new

and permanent carol. Hark, how the bells all seem to say

“Why leave me standing here?”

December 26

I’m always late for everything. Was late to 

Mom’s death. Last one at hospital at 3AM. Everyone

else waiting so I could say goodbye. Today

it’s just brunch at my niece’s. Same sized 

crowd plus three kids and bacon. They said 

as I entered, “You’re timing is perfect. 

We’re just sitting down to eat.” Perfect. 

They said something about me is perfect.

December 27

Sooner than have kids I’d grow a new dad 

from a rib and have him take me lake fishing and make

fish pancakes and other offal fathers make. I’ll ask 

questions there aren’t answers for and swell my 

estimation to an over-meaty shoulder globe. Unmet 

expectations crash like a crib window via thrown

rattle. We both cry and curse a bunch. I knit boots of dis-

appointment and search forever, over and over, for other 

papa types to first love then bloodlessly “murder.” 

Why subject some unsuspecting pupa to a new 

baptismear when we know how round the wheel is?  

December 28

When you told me you didn’t need me anymore, 

you know I nearly broke down and cried. Nearly. 

I never fully broke down, just teared up kind of. 

I mean my eyes got moist and there was a choke. 

A catch. Like an engine lurching and you think 

“oh no,” but then it turns over and everything’s 

fine, which is to say I am. Fine, I mean. I mean 

when you said that, I got sad and could have

wept. I didn’t but was weep-adjacent. Sob 

possible even which counts for something, yeah?

I mean must you enumerate my tears? Ought 

there be, say, 96 of them? I dassn’t ask that 

but see I could have kept quiet and never told 

you about the near tear I shed but didn’t ’cause 

I still can’t make it alone, I mean mostly can’t. I’ll 

cry if you want or if I want to but just to note 

the proximate edge of emotion I danced along 

like a bent angel churlishly tracing the oval 

of “over,” i.e. your lawn bowling toward some 

ending of us. That overture. Do what thou 

wilt but I’m over here almost losing it 

and need at least glancingly to be unalone. 

December 29

Luckiest toil to pack for yet another 

long drive north to see loved ones

to revel in love but still feels like 

a chore. Been home from Cape three

days and only alone this one. I thought

I didn’t like alone or at least didn’t 

need it. I’m mister revel candy or I’m 

s’posed to be. It’s an It’s a Wonderful 

Life type of luck to have to hurl yourself

from bed so folks can hug you but it’s 

still a pull. Or push? You’re depended

upon. All nights I want to push pause

and disappear into the cushions like a damn

dime. ’Cept I’m lucky. I’m lucky. Lincoln.

Copper-coating. Held tight. Fountained.

December 30

Mashed avocado on thawed white 

toast, boiled egg spilled over it. Gerrit’s 

egg cup on sill still. Can’t bring myself 

to eat out of it. You don’t eat out of sacred

icons, even small ones. Tom Lux said 

“you do not eat that which rips your heart

with joy.” Had he never dropped acid 

or encountered Katz’s pastrami? Would

I could combine those two things I’d 

be a saint. You’d follow only me and think

I was feeding your words direct unto 

the cochlea on high. High. We eat

each other’s breast ideas until we’re 

Gods. It’s how we get through this. 

In between crowning and moondom, there’s 

oranges, ecstasia beans, and fabergé. 

December 31