Babushka
Some girl
called me a creep on the Vine. How did she know when I wasn’t in view, I was
only holding the camera? It’s a kind of magic: her pocketsize phone the
dimensions of a tarot card; she’s read my life in six seconds flat. Maybe she
could sense how my one tentacle clung to the shutter, that long exposure. Or,
My preference
for shadow, my skototropism, gave me away. The vignette is more telling of me
than itself. I slink onto her wall and spell: What would you know you are only a Bush.
This one time I was a house plant
I enjoyed my
pot, didn’t mind getting wetted now and again. She thought she was the
beesknees because she had thighs thick and pocked as pollen sacs. I would’ve
stayed with her but she was a vegetarian.
When I was just a sprig
I asked my grandfather
what makes happiness. We were in a dark room and he was developing a
photographic essay on synthesis. He paused and said one must take the silver
from magic and the ‘us’ from music and put them together. When I asked him how
he put a negative on the light table and told me it would take a life time to
explain how not to.
Once I smoked an electric plant with Zeus
It was the
Dionaea Muscipula year of the cannibal, we were prideful with heads like spring
time dandelions. Saying things like: I made a kite out of construction paper
and called it love; it flew into my neighbour’s yard and I never got it back; I
cried fiercely and he was absolved of his sins washing his rolls with my tears;
that day I saw poverty as a winged hood ornament; I understood the ordinary was
ordinance a destroyer of a key ingredient of happiness. Zeus put on a little
AC/DC and told me about the big fix: mortal sex is how you eat death; each
birth is delicate, a bone china plate. I was just about to |S|T|O|P|
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