well, they always start
the same way:
in winter, it always starts in
winter when I am my weakest.
I am usually unsettled,
raving at the window,
the frost,
the cracks in my joints announcing
themselves in arthritic temper.
you’re so young
I’m so young at this.
inexplicably manic
during the darkest months,
at times I know I should
be sleeping but I am reaching
for anything that reaches
back.
in truth, I am a nihilist and
men didn’t teach me that
nothing ever matters and
nothing is ever coming back.
I watch my days get dragged away by tides
that become encroaching swells
and think to myself,
well, it always starts
with a storm.
I am a nihilist,
nobody had to teach me
that and no men
held that void quite like
I can hold that void.
they mocked me and I let
them and mired in my
constructed reality I now feel
a thirty year repression
birthing from a well,
from a heavy pour
and it carries eels like
lightning, the nose of sharks,
their discarded carcasses like
past betrayals coming next.
you like rain?
a little deluge for your
flight.
I feel no obligation
to anything:
my rectitude,
our plans,
or my penciled tips
on how to revitalize
warehouse row,
I’m tired and
my want for self grows and ends
in impatient provocation,
your spiral notebook,
the bottom of the ocean
as the engine fails.
and you say
well, anything can be
contained in a cloud.
to which I reply,
catastrophe as well
“the well”
daturamoon.com 