It's all just a waste.

I was down.

And so I decided I needed flowers.

But not roses. Because roses have thorns.
And I am so sensitive lately.

I decided, not mixed flowers.
Because I’m mixed up.
And I need to stabilize.

I decided, not tulips.
Because tulips droop.

I decided,
I need gerbera daisies, bright.

Because gerbera daisies stand upright.

And so I bought some
in a wonderful shade of Fuchsia.

I painted some poppies a year ago,
long-headed, red as the watery sun
that floats in the Bay at evening.
A girl I knew asked for the painting,
and I said yes, it was hers.
Then her silence gulped months away
in great raw swallows.
One day my phone shook in my hand,
and the girl who wanted poppies was there.

By then I was alone, in an abyss,
so I was ready to answer a voice
that drifted down in flurries.
She sang jazz across the city
into my pressed left ear,
and I opened to her
like a drawer full of old knives.

I tried to embrace it
but it wasn't two weeks
until I was in bed,
staring at the wall
where the poppies hung,
long-headed,
red as the watery sun
drowning in the Bay.

The pen seeks
         A new ink
As we jot
A new thought
         And think
What needs to be said
Caught in the web
Of our heads
   Spider spun sync

        The fly gets caught
And we prey a new plot
Devouring this meal
         And the reader
Gets wrapped up in our knot

The pen hungers
A new thought
A new ink
A new jot
So we feed it
To please it
Like a pet peeved
For another meal
And the readers get fat

As the audience gets big
Words fill the pig
And they joyously
Roll in the words slopped

The pen seeks
And it finds
What the readers won't let stop

Hunger