The Mezunian

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

the story o’ frosty march <¿気分が良くなりませんか?>

Accompanying music:

<it’s been weeks since the last haiku.

you’d better keep feeding the wall

if you don’t want the mammonth to ’scape…>.

<something’s not right…>.

<look outside for once:

look @ the crisp frost on the grass,

the chalkwhite roofs>.

<no, no, no. it’s all wrong.

it’s march.

frosty february, fine;

but by march, spring has officially begun.

i love the frost, don’t get me wrong,

but e’erything has to go @ its right time,

& e’eryone knows march

is the time for the frost to get lost

& the birds to return>.

<You were happy a few years ago

when it outright snowed in march.


you were so pissed that the weather

squandered a covid-enclosed year

when few should be driving their cars

without leaving any snow,

& then as a last-second surprise,

march marched in & saved the year

with such a bounty o’ snow

several inches high

that lasted for o’er a week.

¿do you remember?>.

<yes, that was a saving grace,

but while march snow can feed the desperate,

it’s no match for december snow.

i don’t e’en remember

what i did with that march snow.

¿but the december snows?

with the mocha mint teas,

the peanut-butter fudge,

the red & green lights e’erywhere,

the weeks off from work,

wasted wasting dinosaurs in the eastern forest

or reading marcel proust…>.

<you still had that last year.

¿have you forgotten the wisdom of olde?

frosty march doesn’t spend december snow>.

<¿but what ’bout the mossy trees,

their leaves plump & green,

the grass flushing green

under torrents o’ rain?

the leaves,

the weeds,

the vines & ivy,

the brambles

& inedible berries…

¿do you remember?

i look outside my window

& see the firs are black,

backed by iron-pale cloud miasma.

don’t like the look of it,

don’t like the taste of it,

don’t like the smell of it,

i want to watch it come down>.

<you are the 1 with short memory.

¿does not march march on slowly?

¿have you already forgotten

our lord, october march?>.

<but we’re talking ’bout december march, here…>.

<& january march

& february march

& september march

& november march,

& soon there will be

april march,

may march,

june march,

july march,

& august march.

the month is still young…>.

but the poet & their inner demons’ convo was interrupted

by the arrival o’ a big, white seagull.

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Posted in Poetry