Poem Against Life in Spring
It’s the stupid mud season again
and all of your haikus are either
false or boring⸺
lie-kus or sigh-kus.
It’s the time of year when I struggle the most
to give a shit about your weak accomplishments.
I watch an unidentifiable animal⸺
circular, furry, desperate for love⸺
gently sink into the gross and viscous earth
without blinking. On the other hand,
I feel strong and have beautiful hair.
My sunglasses are huge as fuck
and awesome, reflecting pricey sushi trays.
They keep all my liquid phantoms in.
Take them off and snowmelt will gush
in massive arcing geysers
and I’ll just become a guy on a bench
who already can’t wait to retire.
Someday a rich person will pull me out of this mud
with golden ropes wrapped ‘round my wrist
and bankroll that one good idea I had
for a lobster restaurant that does delivery.
Then you’ll be sorry for trying so hard.
August Smith is powercube triumvirate. He lives in Somerville, MA. Read his other published work, including four chapbooks, here: http://august.mostlymidwest.com/. He runs Cool Skull Press.
© 2015 Window Cat Press