I Fucking Hate This Week (April 16-22)

Each year it’s as if our position in revolution
or the tilt of our axis causes all of us to slip
off our cusp, to blow up or gun down, overdose
or fall asleep in jeopardy, never again to wake.

Something about the movement of Spring
stubbornly into Summer, of Prince
into a sarcophagus, of Chyna into Tibet,
of oil into water, of Aries into Taurus.

Something causes us to protest life and be slaughtered
for it, to strap to our chests our worst
intentions and find new, seemingly unthinkable
maddening ways to spit at our making.

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