The poem alludes me.

Receiving a Kryptonite lock in the mail with no note from an ex would be, I think, a fastball down the middle from the universe asking you to hit a poem out of the park.  But parked it stays.  Historic and epic snowfalls in February that shut down a city and cripple its noted strength-in-times-of-trouble just begs for specific rendering so that a universal light can be shed to remind us that we are all a part of some human fabric; I think to myself.  Another blog left blank after two posts in quick succession is metaphor for many.  It's a terrible fear to face: rich experience being hurled at you and then passing by.  And capturing it seems futile when you hit 40 and realize that life is finite no matter what you write or don't write.

Mercury in Retrograde

I don't believe in all that hoohaa about stars and alignment and fatalism.  But it sure has been handy to have a scapegoat for all that stuff that has happened.  When I ought to be blissful and happy what with a warm house, and healthy food, and friends and travel and wine to drink, every day, even if I am by myself.  On what else, then, could I scapegoat my crank?  Not anything rational.  So I put it all on Mercury's able shoulders and look forward to him running forward again, and quickly, so that with him he can take my foibles.