a calendar maker’s conspiracy

nothing seems to
be any different
the birds singing
the same simple songs
as the sun hides
behind fluffy gray
the trees still bare
tufts of brown grass
poke from barren soil
the truck still sat
idling outside my
bedroom window just
long enough to ensure
sleep was a dead thing
fecundate with sores
from bed bug bites

after this many
unwanted revolutions
no sense of new beginnings
permeates a new year
when you refuse to accept
the bondage of time
as an assertion of
control over the chaos
the only thing real
is bubbling in the nigh
toxic chemical spill
permeating our skulls

still i wake with a
kernel of foolish hope
as i stumble from bed
unrested and ill prepared
incapable of visualizing
the change necessary
to affect the universe
no eager little beaver
trying to dam the swollen
inexorable river of time
yet with this damnable
dream today will begin
the path to a better tomorrow

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