Twice over, I’ve grieved
for the great sleeve of a butter tomorrow.
Twice over, the sorrow was underwhelming.
This time it’s time to man the helm,
set a crash course toward
the bruised and bloodied sun
dropping its blanket over the undesiring land.
Control must be exorcised.
My heart is comprised of illicit endeavors,
sexual favors, anise-flavored
with just a touch of whisky.
The frisk is risky. Meanwhile,
Spring keeps on coming up empty.