Spring equinox,
or near enough as not to matter,
in the mega-city and all around me
I can feel the tree-currents of real and abstract power
swirl.
I see a kid,
eating a cookie from a place I like,
and can't help but think "fuck!
he was fucking born into all of this".
But of course I was born into all of this too,
all of us were,
ever since the parochial walls came down,
and the seed-currents' flow became all.
"Trying to hold a poem in",
I think to myself,
"is liking trying not to cum
as you stand on the precipice
internally gushing".
Meanwhile, the homeless person
suffers the wounds of Christ and,
another cold night ahead,
snuggles close to the black of the cigarette-brushed asphalt,
and murmurs: all that is gold fades into air