I know a stranger that does not bring me artifacts from the earth
he does not give me flint pieces or moon snail shells from
the coast of Delaware or from blue grass Kentucky.

He does not look familiar.  He looks adult. He looks salt and pepper.
I wonder what he won't bring me next.

I'm really sweaty.
I'm really sorry
I read you such a heteronormative poem.
I thought it was beautiful and short.
I forgot
if I was a lesbian.

If it is trendy for me to like my same ***
I don't want to do it.
Some of us argued, on Lagrange, in Polish Village,
about whether I wasn't shaving because of ideology or
because it was annoying.
I said it was annoying, but I meant that the whole thing about it is annoying. Everything is annoying. I'm annoyed and cold but still sweating.

Sometimes I feel the same as when I am transplanting
fragile cucumbers into the ground with clumsy rubber
gloves, very graceless. I feel tenderness toward you
and disdain toward myself that I subtly impressed upon you.
I am sorry about that. I don't want to do that,
to her. I don't want to do that again.

I felt good when her and I watched raindrops drop into a pond.
Both our natural tendencies were to lie down in the grass,
maybe she was thinking about our muddy bodies,
but I wasn't thinking much. My thoughts were warm.

Today we're going to ride in my ticking time bomb car,
fifty-five miles per hour for a couple of hours,
forty-four degrees is the high and *******, we are going to feel that high. Embrace the peaks of the weather and the pits of our lonely, young, emphasis on the young, but still rather manic feelings.
I feel better doing that with you,
but I don't know if I want to touch you
all the time.

It is worse for a tulip to live again and be renewed
than for the tulip to die and be dead.
“What happens when you die?”
I asked several romantic partners over the course of my adolescence.
“You’re dead,” they answered.

It is worse for the tulip to be born again,
dust to dust, dirt to dirt, true god from true god,
in a process that spiritual peers define as, reincarnation.
No tulip is an individual (that is clear), but a process.
A perfecting oneness.

I can’t admit or bend to any resounding belief that every tulip is the same.
That FernGully was a farce and Pocahontas, a phony.
That is just not going to fly.
Maybe it is the environmentalist inside me speaking,
or maybe it is God.

I refuse to believe the prodigies and professors of renewal and rejuvenation.
I can not discount individuation, even in tulips!
Tulips are victims of suburbia, they have been relegated to the lawn, to the mulch bed,
but inside of them there are remnants of humanity.

I couldn’t believe it, ever.
Not ever, even if you convinced me or bribed me or seduced me.
No chance.

I'm a student so I'm kinda sitting on the toilet
looking out the window in the one of the "centers."
There is this Anselly-Adams snow surrounded pond
in the view but it is all hazed and glazed over from
some fumes. The steamy, heating types.
The fumes are making the view all convoluted.
It is kind of cool but also grosses me out and makes me
feel space-cadety.
Anyway, I see one of my hot babe friends down
below. He is the size of an ant--from my vantage point,
at least. He's wearing a long grey-black pea coat
and combat boots and he's walking with mad purpose.
Like he's about to do something mad important.
And he probably is. He might be picking up his
amp, or going to buy a cup of coffee from the cafe, or going to
play chess with another equally hot babe and
talk about astro-physics.
Whatever he does, I'm guessing there will be a
mild to medium byproduct of disdain, you
know, as a principle.

I felt rather disdainful, today, actually, if you
want to know.
It was because of individually wrapped honeys
(I am NOT talking about small, packaged beautiful ladies).
It is such a waste.
Condense the honey into one container.
Also, not everyone uses the same amount of honey.
Don't lump us together like that, multi-million
dollar food suppliers.