Spring 9

Ambivalence is one of those words you never knew the meaning to
But said around saying like you meant it
-The puddles grow like mud grows around puddles
And flowers and buds on tree tips I pick
pull apart da da da

I saw it today and said Well Hey, lets look it up
-an emotion of equal opposites
Love and hate
Couldn’t care less but talk about constant

And boom thunder like “YES, THERE IS A WORLD OUTSIDE THE WALLS of your room, your home, your friends family and electronic interaction, down the 2.2 neighborhood that would be dirty brick fire escapes and light confusion if you had your way
I’m talking to you
me
Brief deposits of escape dressed as trip to bank
one day cash
and errands that recollect

Life like hate like yell retreats and yell again

All the interaction I can handle

Dying for stimulation of a cigarette worth screaming
three beer what the fuck I’m doing to my life
and pills that take you up down up down up down.

You see…
Spring time is a return to poetry. HOW POETIC
The threat of death returns with breathe. Life and funerals comment on your own.
Three years it was before the end. It being what?what?what?
Ask what I’ve done in three-
All things in three-
Did my colon explode? Thank god.
Did my lupus bring me down like a bummer? Thank god no.
Did I lose my mind and shit my pants and cry on sight my daughter?
Cry at the grave of my mother?

No. Yet here I am, pissing my pants and feeling sorry for myself. Inflicting scotch in place of psychotherapy. Pissing poetry in place of productivity. Here I am with my feet up demanding the unreading world PAY ATTENTION to my mouth farts
offer up the proverbial shit to my unbaring.
Spit it backwards and tell me I done did a good damn job.
Tell me I didn’t.

All in place of a walk. The dim walk a fresh rain provides the unbridled mind. Should I have taken one instead? Is a stream of self-referential-self-condensation unworthy of its own criticism? Should I have left it up to nature to provide me imagery and a consequence? Is it up to me to find the parallels in a puddle and a daffodil, or is it up to me to cry like I mean it?
Where in what does telling tell—who and why do mean it?

Spit it out!

Top it off and cover it in foil for the road!

Shit your pants and cry for sleep—fucking frightened the final remnants of your thinking crumble to the delugetime erosion

Ancient castles

Grandson curled against your four generations won’t slow the phantom color artifact spasms
corroding your brain

Can’t stop the rain and couldn’t save your bed

And I can’t plug gravity’s drain

Only with your death do I begin to see again
That bodies are what bodies are
And death is here again

Death is here again.
Spring is here again.
New life spits its answer back,
“DEATH IS HERE AGAIN!”