february. sunday. two more days. in search of a café. swans and seagulls. omega.

do not hesitate to employ every habit
i know you’ve been at it
much longer than me
the winter is fickle; i won’t give you trouble
walls turn into rubble
walls fill up the sea

february. sunday. two more days. fireworks across the water. school boys masquerading as soldiers.

for each little grape sprouting leaves in my liver
i ask - you deliver
oh what have i found
we’re watching the nationless torment the nation
such sweet celebration
such heavenly fun

february. sunday. two more days. mustard yellow mud. your crooked horn.

mother mutiny shines
unbecoming, undressed
chanting blasphemous rhymes
at the top of her chest

all the pushers and crooks
those who steer us all wrong
better call off their deals
better set off their gongs

better soon realize
they are bound to depart
better read clever tomes
better master the art

of not acting alarmed
when she enters the room
with her tigergut strings
and her propane perfume

i was not there
hearkening the seasons
spoon you out
over time
over by the grains
over by the grounds
at no time truly over

did you not ever figure, baby lion
you’d be the one to take the selfless route
over by the linked
over by the callow
rewards, rewards
i’m glad i was not there