i knew what it felt like to be a ghost,
or an earthbound flower,
all information, all the time
on these matters: doxing and politics,
when that is all we absorb in our bones.
where the oatmeal ran cold
below contemporary jazz notes
and a vase full of roses.
here were also books in layers
onioned out over our wooden shelves.
and dying temptation had me
money in my pockets–full,
rich like those other in-tune saps,
unwanting and vainglory lame,
found doing the same ways,
for another 8 years with no change.
then i read through it entirely,
a children’s book saved me.
Fox In Socks again, very closely, and smiled,
we don’t do that enough;
it’s lonely at the top,
it’s quiet at the top,
other people hate the top–what hate(?).
humor, the distasteful, slop.
i think about time and how it escapes me,
i think if i could make it stop
and smell the fancied spring flowers
i’d want to make it start again.
i’d know that they were never really there.
modern days of trials and errors
never let you live it down;
beauty never seen, a flower underground.
you know what?
flowers do matter.
i bought no flowers,
i had no money,
about that and how it worked…
each year when we were little,
my dad would send flowers
to me and my sisters
at the time
i found it odd to get roses
from my dad…
my sister reminded me of this
in a text.
i said yes.
thought about consumerism and cards
and how they weren’t flowers.
how i thought flowers
i told her i missed him.
then i thought about it
and how i should take some flowers
to his grave.
Of a rich land,
Dripping to velvet tongue;
This Lai sweet song,
Moving with the wind, touched by the hand—