Yes, mechanical leaf mover,
create the shrillest sounds known to man.
See if it doesn't just slowly make the world a ******* place
by taking away the joy of crunchy leafs,
which gradually become moist, squishy leafs,
then, after a long period, emerging from a snow covering
thaw and lie there, fully exposed, recumbent,
depriving the dormant seed of grass its sunlight, preventing grass,
freeing up water for infrastructure needs more urgent and rational
than supporting the most boring of decorative plants encompassing our lives.

I guess what I'm saying is that, not only are your sounds annoying,
they're just another of the short-sighted endeavors our present society insists on.
You are the "circumcision-for-hygiene-purposes" of our urban planning.

*******, leaf blower. ******* and the excruciating environmental ignorance you represent.

I SAID *******, LEAF BLOWER, YET YOU PERSIST!

You need to let that leafy-******* grow,
covering the shaft of ground.
Rid it of the pleasure-impeding growth of grass!
Let the earth cry out for the sensation of tiny points of pressure
moving delicately along its surface.
Let the ground erupt with wild flowers, or at the very least,
the trampled exuberance of plodded soil
and the desperate levels of human debris that would collect upon it.

Or are you trying to hide our wastefulness from us by removing something
which is nothing, a nothing, invisible barrier?

You've already succeeded in giving my apartment complex the ambience
of an industrial production complex
which I suppose it always was.
Maybe your attempt at concealment
has been a revelation.

Or maybe I just can't think straight,
because there's been a god-**** leaf blower
circling below my window all morning
and now a heavy, riding lawn mower is coming to cut the grass
that hasn't grown since September
but has been watered every day
even though it froze last night
and it's almost November.

climb to the top of the mountain with me

into the fog that surrounds what we see

we'll become rain and fall from the sky

and come back as us every time

the flesh underneath both of our skin

will harbor the journeys we travelled within 

let's draw on our bodies a world of our own

one in which we have turned every stone

I'm a dimepiece
with a timepiece

but I'll tell you one thing
I've never had
good timing.

twenty years
young.
old, I thought
but not old enough
to believe
you're the last good thing
to come around.

just wise enough
to know
a good thing
like you
is worth trying for

I'm a dimepiece
with a timepiece

but I'll tell you one thing
I've never had
good timing

the one for a
minute.
guards up
so the letting down
is easy.
easier
to tread lightly

ha.
turns out
that's not
easy
at all

cause I'm a dimepiece
with a timepiece

but I'll tell you one thing
I've never had
good timing

twenty three years
old.
old enough, you'd think
to know
a good thing
like me
is worth trying for

can't say that I'm
too good for you.
just too bad
you won't give
what I deserve

cause I'm a dimepiece
with a timepiece

but I'll tell you one thing
I've never had
good timing

when you last saw me
i was a pretty carcass
wasn't i?

painted up for the funeral, you were
my pallbearer and up the stairs
you took me. i sat on your
shoulders because no
one else came to
my funeral.
just you
and
i.

when you last saw me
i was a pretty carcass,
covered in dirt and worms
and decomposing leaves.

in your arms you took me, your tears
washing the grime from my pale,
dead face. i remember how
it felt to watch you cry
for the first time and
i wished i was still
alive to tell you
not to. It was
just you
and
i.

when you last saw me,
i was a pretty carcass.
your love died with me that day.
and when you last saw me,
i was only a carcass
you wanted desperately to love.

hahahahaha
hahahahahahaha
hahahahaha

I was asked today "what
are you really into?"
while I was walking to film
class.

He had changed direction
with a flair of drama
and was walking along,
interrogating me.

I had to think.

I wondered how
I would answer his
question, were it posed
by someone I was interested in.

"I like the smell of hormones
colliding, omnipotent in their
decision to do so and in doing
it."

Could I say that?

"I like to feel like a hormone,"
or
"I like being a hormone."
Were these answers?

"I like patting my contracted
******* against the *****
majora of my partner."

"I like sewing," I might say.

That is, the idea
that if I push
and she opens
both testicles
and ******* may pop inside.

Like a **** needle pulling
a ***** thread
through a tight weave.

I laugh, imagining what the little man
would say, but
he doesn't know why.

"Stitch her up, Doctor!"

I'm
laughing.

He just says "you know, I'm into
chemistry, biology. Just tell me what
you're into."

I've been silent.
Is he still walking with me?

All I think to say is
"music" pointing to the earbuds
dangling over my chest, song
interrupted
by his pedantry.

He says "you've always liked music"
as if we've had this conversation before.
As if we know each other.
And it seems like he will follow me
to class.
And sit by me.
And talk about chemistry
and biology
while we discuss Singin' in the Rain.

Hormones, sewing and music.