It must be Spring.
The begonias are vomiting diesel
again,
leaf blowers are whining like scapegoats
condemned to die
again
in a swirl
of garbage and leaves,
and I don't feel like being alive today.
Why must I
again
salute the pilfered flag
that just yesterday I glibly waved?
Somewhere a monstrous, moody moon
lingers like a flashlight in an alley,
plunges her sequined syringe
into my unwitting, smoggy veins.
Somewhere bird watchers
and gardeners
nd beekeepers
swoon like submissive violins.
It must be Spring
again.
I am choking on the dew.
I am lost in a maze of barbed-wire-wool,
still cold, lacerated, hemmed in
again
like a fiery torment of acid tears
spilling into a perverse pool
of my own making,
and I don’t feel like being alive today.
Who are you
to assure me
that life is regenerative?
Somewhere I know that you are right,
but I don’t care. Not now.
I am an oil derrick
wheezing night and day;
my demise is bound up in my riches,
and I don’t feel like being alive today.
Somewhere it is Fall
and somewhere it is Summer
and somewhere it is Winter
and maybe here it isn’t even Spring:
How quickly, how often the seasons change!
I am sober. I’ve never done a drug.
but the begonias are vomiting diesel
again
and I don’t feel like being alive today.
Written April 24, 2018
