plants do not require papers that state from where they came

they are caught and pulled by the bite of birds,
        seduced by the between-legs of bees,
            seized on the legs of the wind and animals by thistles and burrs

and the blessed are pollinated by the hummingbird

I do not know where I came from (really?) (really.)

or where nature and nurture intertwine within me, precarious balance from discipline and my genes

I twist bunches of grass between my fingers, feeling the good in a strain

racked on top of white bones, pushing sheets of freckled skin
out, spreading cancerous aluminums under my arms because
an artificial flower smells better during *** than human sweat,

what a pity, we are unable to reveal with the bursts of Walt Whitman (!) in
our own organic mechanism's ability to produce salt. The ultimate flavor.

I grin. Inhaling deeply while alone and unwashed, Whitman would've been into it.
Maybe I can find someone into it too. Someone who'll read me Henry Miller.

But instead I'll wear expensive perfume. I grin, again. Sardonically.

And I've been told I have a beautiful smile.
I should,
that smile cost blood and five grand for something cosmetic and quirky,
train-tracks over teeth, I now stain yellow with obsolete cigarettes.

I wait in the tropical heat, languishing while I bake, a freckle factory
and tan--adrift--awash with memories recalled by the smell of green
and the fearful hum of bees.

Why did I start smoking again?

I look at the red hummingbird feeder, and wish I could trade
          
             standing still as a hummingbird, I lie and say I cannot wait.

She called me strong

How wrong she was

I can still see my scars

They sting sometimes

Just to remind me

I was weak

I still am

I heal just to be reopened

Torn apart again and again

There are wounds you do not see

But that I feel

I fight

But it doesn't mean I always win

No one can win all the time

Everyone is weak sometimes

I'm sorry to tell you

That your pain

Will remain

And if it does go

It will return

Suffering

Is a part of life

Being weak

Is a part of being human

We can't be strong all the time

And for now we'll remain

The weaklings that we are

We remain

Alive

And that is our greatest feat towards strength

We'll go on.

We'll survive.

Humans are pack animals and you can witness it on the highway
Too afraid to break from expected behavior such as driving the speed limit
Or turning on your lights in bad weather
The lone shepard in the middle of the highway
Driving his run down '67 Cadillac with every window open
So as to let every breeze he passes caress his wild hair until the sun's orange rays finally peek over the hills
And spills into the rear view

Sputtering down the highway at a pace
That only he is comfortable going
Hitting every *** hole, every bump in the road
Acknowledging every piece of trash that litters the roadside wondering
Why no one else can break from tradition
And merely enjoy the open road