The budding of spring is covered
by Carl A.I.
by a thin layer of goose down. This is the marking
of a new life.
The old one passed away with the fall memories.
How Thanksgiving is a slap in the face
of the weeping Native American.
The imperfection of nature's most beautiful.
The best it has to offer is the rose
with its fallen soldier petal.
The sunflower with its seeds pulled like teeth.
And I miss you more each day.
Or is it the underlying concept?
If this world isn't perfect
the inhabitants have to follow suit.
Light is projected onto the canvas of night that
represents a new day, a new beginning.
Light from the times of great injustice
lost in the bleak emptiness of space
finally finding its way home.
The stars wink at us saying, 'Hey, you get the joke? '
The beat generation is all but gone.
A passing motorist I wanted to get a second look at
sped by too fast.
The Buddhists are dying.
Sanskrit is on its death bed.
It caught the virus too.
The written word has a death black cancer.
It caught it from the carcenogens of technology and capitalism.
The dead presidents are dancing with Sylvia Plath
because it is always spring there.