tip of my hearing
far away crashes
and thudding rhyme,
of a guitar solo driven
way, way over:
a heavy metal show at the nightclub down the street.
Hand-horns and denim required for entry.
I feel like I’m not old enough, or too old,
or built indie-elitist-too cool for school-wrong to go.
I feel like if I don’t go
I will have surrendered,
stepped off the part of the path of wisdom
that leads through excess. Tonight
I want to be one with that certain defiance
that comes through walls
like a stone drill mounted on a Harley,
all the way through selfish walls
to rest near the beating flesh heart
of a whole bigger
than its drum, bass, guitar, and vocal
Where my garden was a week ago
is a box of dirt. My plants
with their unripe veggies
are piled rotting beside it, victims
of something swift and mysterious.
All that’s left are two watermelon vines
too far behind to bear fruit
before the first frost, and a lone
strawberry which is suddenly
I hate strawberries.
There’s a box of dirt
and a couple of useless-to-me
survivors, and I’m hungry
for the squash and cukes
I won’t get. I feel like I’ve presided
over a genocide
and am ready to kill what’s left
out of sheer rage.
A box of dirt, six by three by two.
I could almost lie down in it
if it were empty. Lie down in a box of dirt
and stare up at the sky, wondering
what happened, how I got here.
who will water me as I once watered
what grew here, what food
I will need. Ask if I can bear fruit
I would want to live on,
and if I will live long enough
to do that.