The sweatiest of sweat;
the downiest of down.
Even when the phone
rings at 7am with what,
on the surface, would
seem like fantastic news.
The blues won’t dissipate.
These feelings tend to even
tually evaporate, but what
to do when you have to
wear them like a pair of
cloying t-shirts back in the
hot summer state of your
humid youth. What if the
only thing left is to admit
(And to whom? Oneself?
Me? What is defeat if
there’s no one to whom
you might appropriately
tell?) defeat? It’s the
hopelessness that’s
new. And what is
there to do but
(What?) hope
that, like al
ways, this,
too, will
pass.
And
fast?!
