While in earnest I can assure you that it is the butterflies who don’t return that hit most emphatically, in January I have stayed to perform for you. A missile lands on a soft dune in the desert, it does, while the Strait closes in on our curtain of blue dust whirlpooling its sweet oil.
Uh-huh, it drives me mad to keep my white clothes on. The quality of the air is putrid, oxygen-rich and enough for everyone? Watch me throw my seed into the air,
uh-huh.
There.
Where a caterpillar can mistake it for a leaf. Now for these clothes--
It could be that the salvation of my soul depends on the Maker’s inclination to judge me against the virtues of my nation. How could a jacket be more than a pair of wings that die on your way south? I set it on fire, and into the air it goes.
The thing is, I am angry that people have to die for me to have free 2-day shipping. In the end we haven’t figured out how to make blood obsolete, and bland shirts are exclusive to the culturalists behind the reigns of Agnes Martin. Thus, into the air it goes.
Now the buds of my chest grow sharp enough to cut my fingers as I run them on my ribs with the delicacy of 10 bug-legs landing on an iris bloomed. It’s wonderful to drip when it’s my fault and the Maker can judge it, it, my own blood striping down my pants. Haha! Into the air then.
It’s not cold no, just uncomfortably north. Couldn’t the butterflies return before the sand blew up and I am left here in the smoke of my own white clothes in a delirious dance of sweet, sweet oil? Amazon’s cotton is my underwear, which I deserve to breathe too.
A missile that lands in a soft dune lands in the Appalachian too! And one falls in the Rockies, in Lake Eerie, and the Delaware River. I could burn my whole house and a caterpillar won’t grow, the air won’t be smoke, and my packages would still be delivered.
1/3/2020 8:31PM