letter to crow

in tampa the weather is balmy
and life drifts along. you being to wonder
what it would be like in gaza or maybe
at the local starbucks. anything to get off
the cottony non action that reduces you
to hunting for episodes of tv to replace a life.

the tarot is is like a carrot that you stick
onto your psyche so that the pain you're feeling
(which no one can understand this far out
from the dead zone, most especially you)
may be allievated by a sybyllist or sillogist or gist
of something less retarded than your emotions
after after the blast .

when you draw
the queen of swords is your card.
she holds her blade in a non threatening way.
there are clouds in her hair, and a symbol
of a song you once wanted to turn into a virus
that might infect thousands and bring
no money in its wake, not even reorganization.
just some glee that the trip took you there.

anyway but here, where you sit in your chair
counting the days till your own personal apocalypse
arrives, knowing indeterminancy of the last one
is the gluon herding three protons
with its own ripe bark.

you sound like you're in a bad mood
but you're not, just sad. that you don't
think sad equals bad is amusing to yourself
but perplexing to anyone who asks.


the lights are working at the intersections
in your favor. the weather is what paradise promised
in the brochure. you think you hear your neighbors
making love. or maybe that's laughter and you remember
what that felt like for a minute. then you remember how
to be just as giddy through the miracle of chemicals.

saturn's in retrograde. it's time to let go of things
but not time for beginnings. you want to ask
the man on the corner with the sign saying hungry
to take them, but he's not there again today, and you wish
you could join him, where ever it was he rolled his
stolen cart to, so you could not be there too.