I remember sunflowers inside out. Ripened roots accompanied by leaves and
the leaving.
Close your eyes
and see it,
know what I tell you is true.
“Dormant doesn’t exist – dead is dead!”
to which Jahweh said,
“You old devil, what’s wrong with your head?
Only Nietzsche is dead.”
Which was liked by all
and shared by many.
It’s tight at our table,
unknown parts of the same group,
face to face, and she wants to
teach me to drink Cognac.
When I was younger I was a renegade
To the true muse, but not for lack
Of worship
I fester. I ache.
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how can something that happens so regularly always come as a surprise
like the monthly blood down your legs
or the change of season
one day I’ll never be caught off guard.
I’m running across a pane of hazard
green grass, toward an acrylic pink