me, i'm jasmine and clover honey
rooted to the idea of tragedy
being a jaded ruby slipper.
dorothy?
she found the lucky land
whisked back
and found
all sorts of redemption—
violet, the colour of wind upon tongues
hushed and soft, genie brilliance
whisked, whisked egg-battered whites
and sunrises telling me
i'm such a dreamer,
a flagrant, fragrant dreamer
too caught up
in why
one size fits all
never fits quite right,
too believing
of brown-nosed strangers
poking sticks and stones
and filthy promises
into my hands.
i don't believe them now.
i found sanctity
in the cathedral of my belly.
i found a gravel road
and decided
it needed spraying
with gypsies
gaping wide, smiling
as if their jeans would burst
and turn scarlet
from loving and laughing
so damn hard.
and that's what i want: magic and energy
to tell me i am jasmine and clover honey
searching for other fields, searching for grass
to lay my head upon, my stalks
and shadows and petals
and dandelion crowns
to graze upon
my version
of a violet
halo.
i believe in different meanings of essence.
in the totality of infinite. in the reasoning
of the obscure, art-fucked tendencies
found in intellectuals, hobo musos
and junked-up hookers
searching, searching
for?
you'll find it, i'm sure.
arcs and circles, arcs and circles.
hold my hands.
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Submission Name: fountains, fields, visions
