END OF SUMMER DEATH BLUES

As afternoon darkens,
and uncalculated drowsiness weighs in,
all the problems of our century swelter like Los Angeles fogs.

I sink reclined in my bed,
static, behind a backroom view of the greenery.
Tangled bitterness and grief hold me like a balmy fixative.

Your disruptive earthquake rages
and your industrious lecturing can not irk me.
They are heavily congesting into this heavy, killing smog.

Started while residing on Westmoreland St. in Syracuse, NY; 1993 or 1994, aged 25 or 26.