i am troubled by the vast
differences between the
distance linking the
synapses in my brain
and Cotopaxi, compared
to how fast my heart starts
beating when a dodge truck
comes grumbling down Main
and for whatever reason I keep thinking

All   I       could    ever     be
is a bud of honeysuckle tucked
into your jeans, practically suffocating,
(have you seen what happens to leaves?)
when you snap their obcordate bodies
and your oils seep into their pilose little
surfaces--

trying to be as smooth as Tennessee whiskey
but let's face it
let's face what?
let's face that I am not any kind of high
That in the past couple months the only
way I've seen myself is in the brash statements
of others tangled up in their ridiculous ideas
about where happiness comes from which
is about as silly to me as people thinking that
money really does grow on trees

there's this churning in my chest that
feels like i am thick as cream and someone
has stirred me up with honey, i could be
sweet,

i could be sweet.