Who’s friendly throat should I be choking,
Like nature’s reaction to the indecisive?
I’d take that life, like Romeo, out of anger,
Except I can’t exhibit that side in a healthy manner.
See the back of my canvas, not composed,
Not started, but it might be a fledgling Starry Night,
and my dear Earless Man might be beaming like car lights,
Who’s shine sometimes blinds while trying to navigate the evening.
Now it’s bearly November, and if I were a mushroom
I’d be freezing underground without recourse.
But I’m not a mushroom, and I’ve got four limbs,
So I can climb from my hole without severing my connection
To Mother Earth, that foxy mistress, who doesn’t assume
And doesn’t judge me for caring.
I’d lay her softly on my restricting bed if she were a real woman
Available for consumption. But she is no commodity.
Rather, she gives you these sanctuaries where you can retreat
Or you can take some other lady and fall in love before her.
Like a true mother, she’s always providing,
And like a true bastard son, I will predictably be there,
Now that reliability seems to be a sin, if I’m construing correctly.
Of course, it’s very possible that I’m wrong.
(From November 2012)