The Chronicles of Onan

Looks like Onan had some kind of field day. The ground at Burnet Park cleared and grubbed, scraped raw. Where the sumac and brush were. Stripped bare. But down toward the corner of Coleridge (yes, we also have Tennyson, Tompkins, Lowell, and other streets so eponymously named) evergreens were planted with stakes and wires to keep them straight. But back to Onan and his field day. Seed spread like a storm. A swirl of grass seed scattered over the freshened land. A feast of fecundity in waiting. Like insulation blown in. Teal paint. Snowdrift. Seeds. Seeds. Seeds spilled hurled thrown cast broad cast over the naked earth. The spilling of the seed as if in some kind of helter-skelter rampage, even splashed up against the bark of pines. Seed that does not look like seed but rather some cellular fabric dried snot greenish blue carpet. (Not nearly equaling the seminal production of unfettered youth. Ha! Nor arousing the Puritan guilt of finger-wagging dogmatists.) The seeds sleep. And wait. To whom will it matter if and when this protean blizzard ends up as dog-shit-riddled lawn, eye-catching landscape, dandelion heaven, emerald bedding, a fitting reverse tribute to Onan and his would-be offspring? (Seems this seedy syntax simpers and simmers as the wriggling ravings of an old man envious of tidal seminality.)