spring reared then pounced

Too soon spring. I haven’t had the time to watch you slowly develop. You suddenly became adult one evening. But the cold? How can you stand up against 30 degree nights when your colors are so bright, pastel, warm. Blood in you storm-tossed with lava heat, all expressive in the indian paintbrush new dawn, some flowers folding up sleeplike when the sun goes off ’em.

There are so many colors in the air nowadays. Since last Thursday about. The first blooms were white, veiny snowflakes, crystallized in the wiry branches of medium size trees, trees nearly two stories tall, one story wide, no knowledge of what kind of tree it is, no research done for sake of this observation, just white pedals on blue backdrop, wiry branches, spring is sprung, and how now? I beseech thee spring, to slow down for me! Think of all the poems I could write about you if you just lasted long enough for me to soak you in!

Let yourself live longer than other years. Let your bees hum songs with new wings. I want to hold you presently and turn you over in my mouth, to taste. I want these colors of yours to infect my grey internal landscape and wake me into bloom as well. Because god dammit I am tired of being depressed. Oppressed, in my big ol’ apartment home, in this cottage of waste and hiding, hiding from them, from the mailman, the others, the neighbors, the elderly, the young couple with the dreads and the bong in the window, all of them. They are not my oppressors. Some wrench in the gears of my mind. Maybe it’s a clarinet caught in my spokes and I’m tumbling headfirst off the bike through the brassy tangle of the first chair French horn. Blow man, blow. 

The cat rolls around on the sidewalk outside. Hyacinth forced their way through the balmy dirt and then, top-heavy, flop over. Their trunk to tip weight ratio is like an inverted pyramid. They topple and tangle UNLESS many others grow around in a little blue/purple or pink/white colony of leaning towers. This is a broken people metaphor, do you see it? All huddled together like snow day smokers? They stand for longer if they can lean against each other. Smoking cellophane cigarettes with mutual lungs. Perfuming the air with sensuous floral olfactory latticework. Not the cigarettes. The flowers. The flowers growing outside of “Flowers” where the planters are used as ashtrays. Those pedals however smell like smokestacks. Forget it and huddle. Otherwise, flop. Back to the grave.

So why don’t you slow down a minute? Give me a chance to run before you mug me. Well in your case, give me a chance to take you in before you kill yourself. Let me see inside of your heart before everyone is out holding iphones in front of their sunglassed, still squinting, scrunching little faces, the look of the real true heart of america is the face of the selfie, the camera arm out extended, the peace sign and the cherry blossoms in the background. Where is the sitting and watching and loving and warmly accepting! All is a crock. Hoping you, springing out there, keep your clothes on for longer, or pause for me some time. I’ll be looking through binoculars to the west for summer heat and I hope your hungry little black ants won’t crawl in me while I’m sleeping. I’ll keep my ear to the ground for the tectonic shift signifying your downfall. I’ll absurd my way through accidentally invented verbs. I’ll care greatly what you do when I’m gone. I’ll wish to live in your presence forever and ever and nowhere is this true. I want to smell all of you, all of your parts, and drag myself out of an earthen birth and bloom and feel happy because other people are sniffling with horrible allergies at my expense.

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