Must be May

   
it must be May    
everything's become malleable again    
   
my summer on, through August    
is an electrified peyote button stitch  
too ecstatic in happening to be held    
   
it is May, nine thirty in the morning    
on its fourth day    
I didn't know I still believed in ecstasy    
hadn't the foggiest notion    
that it could be exponentially expanded    
through patience    
   
this last winter was one of the worst on record    
I made it through in a one foot in front of the other sorta way  
an amazingly big deal to an asshole like me    
   
spent much of it drawing    
working on the same few pieces    
hundreds of hours on each    
reacquainting with old friends    
   
every artist hates the, "so what is it?" question    
unless they're painting ducks    
but I was implying an underlying pattern    
often enough within the most simple set of variables    
that a manageable everything appeared    
   
If I had the words I wouldn't be so abusive to graphite    
   
but it must be May    
because by the end of April    
I thought I was cured