sometimes I think,
sitting in the sad girl seat.
sometimes staring into clouds
into pebbled, light-footed blush
upon the abundant tortured sands -
there whistles hope through hair
and love past whorled ear.
Fate be not proud for thou art wicked expectation.
sometimes I think that thinking is too much.
**** me it will. like the buzzing of filmy insect wings
as if the pressure of that spectral pregnant light -
were the candlestick in the dining room
with Madame Sosostris.  and april is the cruelest month
and depraved may and june and july. and august is just too hot
and september is lonely.
the snake gray seat and the sad girl eyes.
when the pine trees pass
in hundreds in thousands,
along miles and years
and sometimes thinking stops
and sometimes circles back
and I feel small and young.
There was a time,
when legs akimbo and arms
snaked soft, shelled tight, and snailed with hunger
were satisfied and glory held tight
all the multiples of content.
I was old with the heroism of
a mine-filled maze and melting wings.
the temptress, the knave, and the ******
I drew parallels with watery finger paint,
and words fell as if monsoon season
were rescheduled for february -
the cruelest month.
and I rode toward the land of adults,  
the promised land for the moderately free,
triumphant in the high girl seat.
and sometimes I think
that truth is sad
like the day after Christmas.
is sad like the lost boys and
the glory never satisfied
and the sad girl eyes
mocked for their youth
forever dried to  
the sad girl seat.