Just as it has always been,
so it rears its head again;
the blackest day in all of June,
tired as the frozen moon.
I do not fault the wishers-well,
who do what noble hearts compel;
who by blood or benevolence
love me past their own good sense.
It’s not the aging that I mind,
the going bald or going blind,
it’s not the specter of the void
that always has me so annoyed.
It’s how each anniversary
recalculates the waste of me,
broadening the gulf between
the failure and his fading dream.
Let me leave them with a joke;
blowing dancing flames to smoke,
wishing to asphyxiate,
choking on my birthday cake.