The Mezunian

Die Positivität ist das Opium des Volkes, aber der Spott ist das Opium der Verrückten

Waiting for Summer to End

I fill my rucksack with pine cones & acorns,

stuff closets with branches & boughs—

sap so sticky, so golden under the sun—

collect stacks o’ grass in pillow cases—

tickling my nose with sweet dirt-filled fragrance.

They try to stop me.

They say I’m crazy.

What’s wrong with crazies?

What, are they Nazis?

‘Cause I know they’ll take it all ‘way someday—

the sky & the clouds & the rain,

the moon & the stars & the sun,

the blooms, the bushes, & the dirt,

the trees & their fall-fallen leaves,

the bees, their precious honey, & their wicked hives,

the wind & the rain & the snow,

my skin…

So I squeeze it ‘tween my shoulders,

huff it up my nostrils,

like one deserted in a desert, just coming into contact with water for the 1st time,

‘fore someone warned her that huffing water is bad for one’s nostrils.


You can’t have it back!

Just give me a few mo’ minutes with them!


You always say you’ll give them back later—

but I know you plan to destroy me ‘fore that comes.

You always plan to destroy me ‘fore summer comes ‘gain,

& I always barely miss destruction.

But I know this time won’t go so well.

This time’s different.

You’ve got me just where you want me.


I’ll miss you, sweetie.

(Kisses oak branch.)

Posted in Crazy, Poetry