poem of the day 07.15.11

in the sunshine again

i think that i have
the reverse of that all-american disease
seasonal affective disorder
because sometimes i think
maybe i might kill someone
for just one gray day in the summer
every now and then
for a little rain to fall
on humanity’s parade
but there’s no luck to be found
i’m back in the sunshine again
on the golden streets of brooklyn
this thursday morning in july
where the garbage men
leave more trash than they take
and everyone’s excited
for this week’s new blockbuster film
there’s nothing for me
and my january heart
but to sleep, dream, and wake
into the shiny glass bottom of the bell jar
pass the happy faces
wearing happy hats
swaying in happy dresses
drinking happy coffee in plastic cups
going to happy work
frankly, i don’t understand people
while the thirst for the same drivel of life
drives me mad
the rest of them seem to thrive on it
but i suppose if most of you
really stopped think about the malaise
of human existence
there’d be rivers of blood
running down the streets
from people picking each other off one by one
and there’d be no one left
to go to baseball games or disneyland
perhaps it’s better this way
to trudge through each bright dawn
communing with the other cockroaches
to never dwell on the years
that have usurped any chance of greatness
to let the baby carriages block the entries to the bars
instead of looking into the mirror
to see what’s been really lost
it’s good to be in bed
by ten o’clock most nights
instead of going crazy on booze
and bad luck
and while i might be down
my february heart
caught in the sadness of the summer season
there are signs on every street corner
this brilliant and sun-soaked day
as the rats of brooklyn
carry their lawn chairs
and jugs of kool-aid to the beach
signs that prove how lucky i am to be alive
there are fliers posted on the telephone poles
of loud neighborhoods
full of car bass and talk radio
for a missing nine-year old boy
except the thing is
they found him yesterday
hacked up and spread out all over the borough
they caught the murderer
he has a kind smile
and makes a mean tuna sandwich
he looks like the sort on a stranger that you’d pass
on your way to work
the one who smiles
sips his ice coffee
and taps on the morning paper
says to us
isn’t it a beautiful day
as he squints incessantly
into the dazzling yellow horror of the sun.