gravediggers apportion their labors to greet me. a vast supply of holy water whose eight pints turn to wine in my veins, a ghost in splendid flower, the fuchsine of the vine blending into fatal position, shining a light on the moon. this was nothing a blue sky could do. and filth & pigeons to climb my way home.
this story has a certainty like supper. if you're going to sleep-in through the rain, ask the fingers that feed you for long arms. dogs have no human response to weeds that grow out of your head but don't fall off. their point is to swallow. or how one might imagine a conversation like a clockwork orange without the violins.
in the magic self it seems everything has meaning, but it's not long before the chronic of logic & time disproves this theory. today there's no disaster, just lovers vomiting blank stares that drop the temperature in the room. making good nasty love signals the end of this mood. afterwards, we get back in our clothes, go buy some paint, punk, and studded with jewels.
this is a poem about potting soil. one of those sunsets that looks like the stuff that comes out of a genie lamp after you make it shine. I feel like a spiny caterpillar on a playground and it's beautiful inside. some of the tiniest maps contain every minute of our lives.