Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

I awoke in a strange state today.
I wasn't a bug.
I wasn't a raging alchoholic threatening to drop out.
I wasn't in love.

That was the peculiar thing.
Spring had sprung,
and had doubley uncoiled without me.

I contemplated this new position of inadequate apathy from the shower
upside down
at the toilet
in the garage
and even drinking on the back stoop half asleep in my pajamas.

With my straw hat lopsided
and my bottle ajar

I just gazed vacantly at the gathering virginal leaves, clumsily sprouting and reaching for the morning light.

So thin and frail
passing light, filtering hope, and even tranquility through a brick stacked cellular veil
they look like I could safely kiss through them
safely fall head over heels cushioned on a field of their peers.

Such unecessary things.
Worship.
Recreational sex.
Novice prose.

Yet as I contemplated the grass and the dimpled concrete against my cheek
that I wouldn't be me without them,
and that spring is only green and fresh for so precious
little
time.

Then we ripen.
Then we wither.
Then we rot and fall back to our mother
to fertilize the generation of those so beloved to be populated, progenerated and admired.

A passing of bachelor authors will blanket and comfort the seeds of handsome illiterate masses.
Threshed by the steely reality they so obliviously obey.

And from the rich, still earth, I will chuckle, and wait for the next sapling to drain my rich foundation of cynical wisdom and earthly disdain to impudently rise for inevitable failure.
Ignoring all warning
to stretch for the free open sky I once coveted.