When I speak of March Madness, I don’t mean basketball.
Spring causes more than pussy willows to sprout, even before
Aprile brings its golden showers.
March Madness making me sway even before I have a right to,
drinking no ambrosia to get me drunk, lining up to take my turn, one brave man
dipping his wick into dark places other men have been before me.
Better last than never, sprouting in the moment the air
changes, and I feel my insides changes, banging my gavel against any soft
surface that will tolerate it, this madness coming up on me each March,
stirring me up until I am ready to explode, this need a need I never cease to
need, laid bare, a throbbing memory I ach to make real again, each year, this
time, when the madness comes
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