17 degrees

on thirty-something parkway east exit deflated christmas decorations collapse lay limp one on top of the other, flapping with the whims of wind like two children dressed in Holiday sweaters wrestling in the grass nearly choking each other triggering the inconvenience of having to act, life is ramping up, in full swing turning holidays into weeds to be dealt with next weekend, with trembling hands place desires in its proper place, recounting the vague details between the ecstatic sublime and the stench of one’s own shit, obsessive solving of puzzles, cataloging of clues, endless unraveling of meaning, dizzying spiral of self history