not the best gardener, but the best critic.
I tease ivy into voluptuous spasms
by letting go to let god
do the work of a thousand
busy joys.

i assume the spice knows the dish
but keep copper in my whiskers.
gone are the days of my perpetual
soliloquy… battle born to the air
of all my sorrows
sleeping with ill fish
in dank thought
but surfacing
to continue.

my tamarind pixels lack focus
but all the happy at my disposal
serves the purpose
of my flailing
rainbows die like *******
on a wire,
and all the everything
you came for
is too long
to be
yes