May Day

For The Alley Track, my incredible friends.

I would like to start off by remembering a spirit who is no longer with us, a mournful spirit who once flickered with lovely lilac flames and emerald diamonds for eye sockets, but is now forcefully under the ground.
So now I'm widowed!— I've had enough of that.
The Winter Wake has blossomed into a garden of fanciful flowers, friends flowing yellow! So what have I done, I dare ask cosmically,

to merit this May Day?

The room, expanding exuberantly, beckons me to a much richer dream, that goes beyond butterfly lips and eyelash blankets, though I wish every night that they would come to pass—
but dreams of non-seasonal satisfaction, and there are harmonicas swaying, and diamond hills of rolling ecstasy, all addiction and disgust barred, and men sweat clouds, and women plant flowers in their hair, and time stops for every hug, and the sun forever peeks through the trees in that perfect dusk manner, and while I'm at it: No more choices! Time stops for deciding things;

every choice is a motionless sunset.

So with these love-dreams in my delicate hands,

I stand on a land-locked ship,

while pollen streaks of gold sing from the sun, illuminating my face, looking upon a dozen cheerleaders turned soccer players, golden sweat adding dew to beaten grass — when does energy's love end? Until the sun collapses! and the yellow leaves pour their joy into my lovely, gorgeous friends, who still race around the pollinated sky, arms outstretched, with little concern for darker skies in the world, which I adore and behold:
laughter adds showers of sweet spring-water to otherwise dry, dead deserts, and raises the lowest valleys of the world— see it! See the Grand Canyon tumble into the sky, crashing into stars and rubbing against planets:
This is what we do. We give height to lowly things; to the trenches of wars and cracks in the silent ocean floor, and the most magnificent feat of all:

Myself.

No single child holds up the stars; there are too many honest smiles, too much hair curled so naturally to be the work of one; so in my future I kiss every forehead and recall the memories of being young, acting young, playing belligerently in the face of wrinkled oppressors:

Education. Damnation. Isolation.
And with soft, grass-stained feetsies dance through the dandelion fields of May:

Evocation.

In the blinding sunlight, a turquoise spirit rebirths, asking that ageless question:
“Will you be my friend?”
I am speechless smiling. Happy horror; trembling with roses swirling on my cheeks. I know not what to say. I want to look up to the envious clouds and shout

NO WAY, MAY!

—But like an esteemed knight, I kneel in the daisies of Minneapolis-Southernly, most gingerly, whilst the shiny badge of friendship is brilliantly awarded after the ceremony of unplanned walks and talks
and long stalks of goldenrods line the path of your visit:

oh what is it!

Beautiful Sage of Spring, gaily dancing in the midst of wonder children,
not holding up the stars but breathing life into them.

Oh where has the youth all but disappeared to?
Playing night games! Chasing shadows within the shadows, finding each other among leaves and chilly air that signals the close of the Day of May— rapidly fading to the familiar November Gloom— frosty end-year so lethargic and untrue— where can I go but the catacombs of my un-human blanket?
The room echoes false. The golden rays are gone.
All the spirits— under.
Elms, petal-spheres, honey-grass, wilted,
exhaling while everybody looks through photo slideshows of when they were ugly and applies temporary tattoos to their snowy December skin.
And her olive skin. And her olive eyes.
Hand me that golden leaf:
I will sparkle it onto her face… the speckles illuminate electric spring… her lips so dreamlike… pollen
falling
from the small
hands
of
Heaven.

Anaphylactic shock.

My body is fading to stone.
My mind is writhing for air.

But my heart, it takes precedence;
controlled only by the Virgin of May,
whose vivid vigil appears before me just now,
smiling all of Spring upon me,
lifting me up from my knees,
“Will you be my friend?”
Who else would ask but she,
the turquoise princess of May Day morning.