(written after reading Don Share's Union)
Okay, here goes -
something new, which is always
better than the old,
unless the old is you, or me,
and one zooms to Tut and his wrappings,
which had their spring awakening
only when the tomb was broken into
which is a bit like a tuber, or bulb
or whatever flowers really are
being decrypted from the soil;
and sometimes birth and flowering
appear creepy, sort of B-Movieish,
but we don't mention that so much
when dancing in the spring rain,
with e.e.'s balloon man, who,
nowadays, would be, bluntly,
creepy too. Very.
I am forcing a thing here, a style,
because my head has no voice,
only desires to appear reasonable
when being strip searched,
or ordering decaf lattes. I want,
in all fairness, to get along,
little doggy, with the days as they go
from out of my skin and diaries,
flying off somewhere like those blossoms
that represent what's best about spring
and then enguttered, filthy-pink
after some rain bashing, enhance nothing,
and appear as my thoughts often do,
unintentionally grubby, barely hidden,
flung out suddenly for all the world
to see, which all the world doesn't, though,
since, all things being equal, why would
the world bother to notice such things?
March 20, 2013
by Todd Swift
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