Oh optimism,
the bluebird flies
Oh optimism,
the bluebird dies

The dead men
beckon me

tell me
their story

do I listen?
do I heed?


dead men
are dead

they do not
have what
I need.

lines of reach are radio waved
touch is by text with calloused
index fingers.
Microwaves surround and direct us to go  where
we are going blue teeth phones we twitter
looking at thinner screens.
I quit. Need a twelve pack
and a dove sitting on wire
and free TV and a non- nuked
non- steroid and antibiotic genetic non- altered corn of cob
and leg of fried chicken and two good women.

I begun painting my nails
so that when I am hanging onto the real world
with nothing but my fingertips,
at least my hands will look pretty
before I fall

I changed  since the March
when I was eighteen looking for a thing

(Anything)

At the time
your problems became mine

My life's complacency
was overtaking me

This year around I

Decided I'd let the dusty ruins build up
in the palms of my hands far too long

and I blew them into the cold night air

It's the new found March
where I'll find out who I am