this spring
this spring
despite the light & cheer the sun will sing
Mayday is cursed with doublethink,
or blessed with the awareness that strange days can bring,
April the scattering of shelter on the brink—
this viral trouble brewing will be the undoing of every known thing
so we must link to become the unknown, the ensuing world must shrink to the roots,
blink in the truth,
drink in the proof
that the glorious inner tree inside our box of bone
deserves & needs the space to breathe,
the sense to ground yourself and heed the facts, & contact trace
the daily face you need when what was once completely real & mapped,
like a fever, burns away
(hours vanish every day)
the fears you chase & feed a rising song that makes you turn a ray of off-key music
into melting laser beams instead of streaming sunlit power,
when harmony is what makes sense
especially when danger seems to fall like pelting hail in thundering showers,
when saner deeds would make us see: the crystals bouncing off the
window sills we lean upon to catch some air amid the storms of worry
seem to crash upon our every choice; perhaps some too seldom merry,
many hobbled and scarred or scared already,
already too far forgotten to see that if we really rally we each can rise or fall as needed,
like a voice—
if all we were was sound, what would you hear right now? where a pentatonic solace,
where a harsh and growing noise?
*
this spring
the truth will be heard! though we may lose our sense of smell…
but once cured, recovered, and well
we’ll one day emerge, shaken & purged, with a grim cellular tale to tell!
and I pray that by May in a year, to the day,
fewer waves will have surged & swelled or overwhelmed the Sacred Hearts
the real-life County Generals of moxy and pluck,
dead-tired staff with not enough masks, what the actual FUCK!?
and meanwhile a maniac narcissist dictator explodes every day into shouty federal toxic muck
O DEATH
O DEATH
WON’T YOU COME TO EVERY EGO YET? [sing/harmoniz.]
DEATH, COME TO EGO
not to disproportionately under-resourced minority communities
with weakened social structures and fewer medical opportunities
DEATH, COME TO EGO
not to living angels draining every drop of mana that they have to save our souls,
the helpers stuck in hell with lives they have the right to safely lead outside their crucial roles
O DEATH
WE ARE NO LONGER YOUR GOD-SLAVES [harmoniz.]
our minds magical matter like a system of broad caves,
our sense of the ultimate both gnawed & craved,
our each dying memory clawed its grave
in the nourishing soil of our soul to sprout like a twisted fern,
sacred, flawed & brave.
*
this spring
it’s adventure time: I turn 33, grateful mending human child of every bird & bee,
a wind-tossed seed, roots as strong as weeds,
I’ve opened both my eyes to every contra vitae scheme,
at least the ones that are now eminently visible to me;
the eye can learn through patience. it can take so long to see.
*
this spring
yesteryear seems ancient,
audiovisual biomimesis motivates this verbal arrangement,
heightened herbal engagement that dishes me visions in hummed style
[humming], a Cheshire cat’s grin streaks the summer skies,
the reach of our species the sharp shadow of a sundial,
the buzz of quantum static where a bat’s wing beats in the gloom—
do bats eat butterflies?
is a hurricane pure chaos?
isn’t every crude or beautiful doom?
*
this spring, this spring
epoch-wizened forest fruits will bloom and share the night with me:
ॐ ॐ
{I am not my body I am not my mind}
this spring, this spring
I’m free