Michael Comstock

The Doldrums

I am wigging out. Low sun, birds post-note to a cobbled cloud. The park attendant attends to no man, though sometimes he mows hate circles shaped to my spot. Today he bumps Octagon (listen to your heart beat, delete beep beep beep) but otherwise stays far. Concerning the girls who paint picnics: they are not friendly. I call to them with my French words. Venez filles! Venez soleil! No go. This guy walks by in another season. Snow go crazy, or so he says, but what crazy? What snow? At last: shadows, slow spook out.

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