seasons

a blackness to which i'm not entitled,

that’s for the spinning of machines and galaxies

i'll just slide down into the welcoming dirt,

make a real contribution

one less privileged mouth to feed

let the oaks eat my flesh or ashes

what a choice of pathologies:

escape from possibilities, impossibilities

no feasting on the news or salt or miseries

no happiness, self pity or compassion

or connection. wordless. blind.

et cetera et cetera et cetera

screaming. certainty.

dwindling down to

a whimpering in the dark, wanting

two warm arms, a hand placed gently

a breath on the neck before

the press of lips or the muzzle of a gun

reviewing before sleep

or jotting a bold list with coffee.

that's the way for the determined ones:

business and common sense

congratulations, all the best,

they are so very......fortunate. i guess.

what's left? i've already been the angry

nineteen year old, finger twitching the atomic button

railing at the world, spitting on philosophy.

but eating books. and fantasies that never happened.

but still they arrived, lured or uninvited.

with just a word sometimes, a look.

a certain color.

what's the name of the one on the hills

just before they turn to black?

some kind of mud or magic.

something to get lost in, a flirting

for a few minutes, before it's.

spring.

days for planning wars, planting gardens,

when everything is possible

before the apples fall and rot

and leave their seeds for the next

warming round of expectation