Seas

I looked into the eyes
of some blade of grass
crush me Isabel
I won't be your last
time won't stop for
a blade of grass
but you
like you always do
like cats biting shoulders
throwing you on the couch
wouldn't stop the spilling
that creates
a blade of grass
beneath the flood
swaying like the alligator
who swallowed
your nanosecond

Prairie Yellow

A magnificent pause into reason,
And the wind (like foxtails) touching you.

Trades, or: Eggs and Milk aren't the Only Things up for Trade

Splinter
as you speak in offered fragments
of a judgement we rushed and
sometimes it all feels plastic
and wraps around lungs and we go under
lights flashlights lightbulbs headlamps streetlights stoplights
Almost real
Opaque satin almost surrounds this moment
and just when we all thought the plot had thickened too rich
For this wallet constructed by barters no one could keep
Because someone has got your might in the grasp
Of what we all should have been

Exceptions

Smoothness, but who are who? and the qualities of Howness, but you say that doesn't exist.
for you and you are
not your arms
Don't make me swing. Maybe your relationness to where I stand is perceived as you are next to me.
you are to the right but the crowds can see through and there behold the embarrassment.
What is the redness on cheeks or the accent on which becomes Spokenness?

Meating

I know you. I fucking know you. Oh, I've seen you before. Somewhere between a grizzled steak and a pile of shit. That smile peeks around a corner of hell and hair. You like money. The greens remind you of folks, the white sand beaches, bacon in the waves, a brother only fake tits could love. And weed. You've waited for so long.....

I know him too. I've seen him before. His head made of soft pork, shaded by a white rimmed chromosome. Breathing via le mouth, mumbling through dix, touching you on the way to the tanning bed. Maybe I'll stop by the gym....

You coward.
So am I.
Rubbed in sour pine. Sap seeped.
Burned.

I know you. You are made of meat.

erotic history of botany

juniper berries to gin and past, we've begun.

we call it history because it's long since past.
we've got history and we know it.
sweet as the sun, it comes in cycles like a moon.
rearranging furniture to make our history fit into a modern novel.

oh sweet conifer. sweet leaves, spines against teeth, needles to the vein.