I am not surprised
anymore.

I expect people to be
who. they. are.

or, at least
have been, mostly

but, I will remember you
and how good that halo looked

upon your unfurrowed
however fleeting

with a mental drip
slick down my cerebellum
and sticky on the stem

I can’t remember
what this poem’s supposed to be

but it’s not important
and neither are we, just —

coagulate stardust frolicking
stitched in the mystery

(on repeat)

of evident invisibles
exquisite the hovering

at the dark portals

of hurt girl eyes


sincere with wonder

a poise a wounding
a beautiful suppression

the accurate boy mouth


now droops the faun head

now the intimate flower dreams

of parted lips
dim upon the syrinx

So, I missed you,
misused
the tales
that other dudes
passed on.

I stole
the swollen heart of
the dark art’s love,
in observing
and serving up
other peoples
stuff,

little notes
about their lives,
things that I
did not experience
or survive,
but I still write
about those desperate nights
bringing their realities to light.

I plagiarized,
with a chameleon’s guise,
took their truths,
rationalized,
and fictionalized
with little details
and larger lies.

But isn’t that how
strangers empathize?
Isn’t this how
creatives thrive?

perhaps i had it all backwards,
and we are not the more evolved spirits of animals, and animals are not the more evolved spirits of plants

perhaps we are trying to become that which a plant already is:
a converter of suffering into purity, of darkness into light

just as with each in-breath, the plant takes in my suffering
and on exhale, converts it into loving oxygen,
which we drink in hungrily, yet unknowingly,

and just as each spiraling ray of sun is synthesized into pure life energy,
relinquishing the need for consumption of another self,

perhaps we too need to become more like plants,
and not the other way around.

as aspiring plant-beings,
we too can breathe in all that is
and exhale all that is to become.