Cause is cure for substance. And so
things do not sit and await their fate, but
seek to meet it moving. And in the thrush
and thrall of igniting themselves, sometimes
will seek to freeze a moment in space and time
to avoid the inevitable becoming with which they
must partake. Oh, yes, we can rationalize
a means for beating around the flaming bushes
of our majesty and primacy in the voiceless
world of unfocused thought; this drained
imagination which runs and rushes as though
of waters, their raging rivers, blossoming
in some sense, with the aid and guise of
gravity and battery. And to which is more
their suitor? Is it the combustion of our
senses which draws us ever backwards to
our strong but frightening desires? And so,
like all baseballs and bullets, no matter how
sincere their shots, must fall freely back to the
planes of their origin? And so too are we, in
some sense, always going going and going--
but for coming to terms for ourselves how
we must also eventually fall and return to the
messes that we choose to leave til later dates?

And things like this fly through my head at quantum
speed as she leans in and greets my eyes with
burgeoning surprise to say: I desire to have you,
to put you into my back pocket and to wear you
like a locket across my chest, just inches from my heart,
and to say and to know and to reason, that the next step
I take, is not the false one I took before,
but leads to somewhere, to somewhere you
are also. To some place you will show me, where
the fibers of our static skin will stand in salute
to the pretense of our lust-drunken & breath-taking
poise. I tell you that you are a flower. I see you as one,
although to say so is to uproot me also from my own
plot of land and the leaves which decompose around me.
They cuss and spur the iron in their blood to rouse and
ruse the mischievous sun its ire for fating them to
fall from mother's long and tender seasoned swords.
And they lay much like the lady bug which greeted me
at my door the night before. I was priveleged to come
upon her and the shell of her black-splattered, rotund
yet lipstick-red wings, only to learn upon moving her
gently, that this was her final resting place. And too,
these leaves which rot before me and generate the land
needed to grow new things stinks to some degree of
the bruises I still bare on my fresh and flawless skin.

But I tend to my garden because it needs tending to, and
I learn from my loving because to not do so is to
drown in the imaginary water, and to laugh
at your own funeral.