The sounds of traffic are soothing,

The rains bring me to the ground.

It’s like I have an auditory affect

or something

or whatever,

right?

Wind chimes and airflow bring me home

to a home I’ve never actually been to,

I don’t know…

Why bother figuring it out?

It calms me.

Is that not all that matters?

I miss the Upstate Spring dreadfully. The drear

of greying skies and greying hair and greying slush

on the greying dirt covered streets of the greying Ovid-

Stuck in transition, I am a godless insect

with dog eyes by nature,

structure, catalyst, springboard-

a temporary future created

through Discomfort and Delusional

narrative leaps;

A town of 500 people, though maybe more now,

the platitudes of unknowing, I suppose

are the ones that keep us looking up

and away from where we are now.

I’ve spent my entire life dreaming of being anywhere

other than where I am;

Warm cock teasing summer air spits in my mouth and rearranges my guts;

Spring Birds;

Apparitions of the forthcoming season presented

in the sounds of cars honking

and footsteps on cold wet asphalt

and in the echoes of airplanes and helicopters

and boats on the East River-

the sound of a children's soccer game on Roosevelt island,

riveting, edge-of-my-seat-type-shit

the kind of game you go to a diner after

and get breakfast because it’s so fucking

early by the end of the game.

It is the end of February- truly the worst time of year no doubt;

There is no more money

but there are countless seconds

minutes and days and months

left to do things

that don’t take place in February