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A Procrastinator’s Epiphany

The whiskey is mellow,
and the hammock sways
almost imperceptibly
as a Southerly breeze delivers
me into an oblivious sleep.
I wake to the screams
of a million Mayflies
in their death throes, and
the wind is out of the
Northeast now, siphoning
the heat from my bones.
A red Sun has scribbled
its mad manifesto
across the ugly world
in serpentine shadows:
I will hold you in orbit, and
you will mark the revolutions.
Squander these days, or don’t –
I will not remember your name.
Infinities will be devoured
by greater infinities. Immortality
is an abomination – the gift is
this moment right now.