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Still pretty drunk. Last poem tonight.
Folder:
Bad poetry I. Sometimes what's more important is left unsaid
I am here between the geraniums
trying to take root on the Earth, as well. Living in this place is like
trying paint a portrait on the side of a time bomb.
II. I am here between the geraniums
growing pink and red, I am also trying
to take root here and sometimes wonder about the color of
skin. Between my fingers and toes is an emptiness. Sometimes
I feel like a gaudy jewel displayed in fluorescent light. You
won't ever understand these words. Living in this place is like
trying to count all of the words ever spoken.
III. Sometimes old age is beautiful. I
like flowers most the way they wrinkle instead of shout
I would like a little more texture in my life. A breast feels like
a cupped rosebud or
a grenade. We'd all really like someone to lay atop the landmine.
Between her legs
a garden of geraniums and insects.
IV. I am kneeling in the dirt of my own breath. It lingers on the planet
in clumps. I assume it is what attracts the flies. I can feel so many wild things
trying to live in my skin. The flower of this planet is of course
still a violently red rose that lives only a while
pushing up the love that restlessly vibrates
between two tame things.
