January 2009

Volcanoes In Spring

Now’s as good a time as any:

Your vernacular couldn’t begin to describe how I feel!

In a twisted-twitchy, goes-around-comes-around, loophole-through-my-void

Kind of way,

Your rage passes through to me

(I must have breathed it in,

My body absorbing it through your saliva,

Mouth-to-mouth).

It’s mine now

And I boil at the though of sharp April winds,

Not even carrying the scent of flowers to allure you,

Creating shadow-illusions out of the gray matter of your brain.

Your memories fool.

Can’t seem to let them go with that wind, can you?

Bet that’s just your fantasy.

Your filtered, unfinished, fucked-up fantasy.

Just please tell me this:

In the valley that should have been our autumn mountain,

Did you fantasize about volcanoes in spring?