i’m a mess these days
and these days are melting away
like candles on the back porch
in the heat of july
it’s only june still
i’ve leaped ahead of myself
i’ve made notes and revised
and welcomed the crippling fear a few weeks early
it comes with perks, the subconscious montage,
it comes with the tune for a morbid little lullaby :
who will die, who will die in july
father, step father, friend, feline?
who will die, die and die,
somber, arid july?
hey if the stars were aligned
in ascending order of righteousness,
and if my birth chart wasn’t a nightmare,
do you think we could hold hands
and gaze up at them?
maybe kiss a little?
if i were squeezed out through the vagina again
and plonked into the hands of fortune,
do you think maybe we could plan things together?
maybe even dream of it?
Rumi said that there is a meadow
where a meeting is destined,
i wonder if that place is meant for us.
oh but wait,
excuse me sir,
in this meadow,
is the grass mowed evenly?
is there a clean place to sit?
will there be time for us at all?