Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,

how can I?

It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.

The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.

In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't **** me.

It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.

I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.

The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.

I drip ashes on them.

There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know
any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.

This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.

when I walked in my stomach was screaming nerves,
my heart felt fluttery from my first of many iced black coffees.
I fixed my eyes fixed on the black hightops I stared at everyday during first period,
the peeling rubber toes pointing straight at me.

I looked up, meeting eyes with the spitting image of Kurt Cobain
who smirked at me curiously, then lifted a finger, and turned into the kitchen.
I busied myself untying my boots, even though they had zippers,
promising myself I wouldn’t loose my balance.

The high tops returned, followed by weathered leather moccasins,
who murmured through his teeth “hmmm, designing with materials girl” .
I grinned through my eyes, attempting not to make myself intimate with the floor so soon,
expertly faking breathy laugh to cover up how utterly freaked the unfamiliar title made me.

High tops grabbed my waist and twirled me into the kitchen,
offering a cigarette before disappearing through the screen door and leaving me
in a room filled with music that ran through my head like a brush
combing out the tangles from driving with my sunroof down.

I was surrounded by people with purple hair and overflowing hearts
who floated around the room singing and talking and dancing
while I wondered how I should fill the shoes of my new title
and what kind of shoes I should even be filling.

out of the corner of my eye, I saw high tops march back ;
he didn’t seem to float but parade, his ponytail not quite matching his muscle shirt arms.
He waltzed right up to moccasins and kissed him proper on the mouth
hands holding his jaw, eyes closed, and balanced on his toes.

Satisfied, he stormed back out through the screen
pulling a pack of blacks and a white lighter from his back pocket
(he would soon tell me he didn’t believe in luck,
even though it was in his pocket when he was arrested over a houseplant).

Moccasins just smiled, eyes rolling up into his brown hair
and with his hands out palms ceilingward in a silent offer, he locked his eyes on mine
Before I had a chance to overanalyze,
he decided for me.

Maintaing eye contact, we danced to the 22 year old boys screaming through the boom box
while I tried to integrate myself into the scene,
tried to float so effortlessly too,
like the cigarette smoke oozing in from the patio

he pulled me into a hug that resented gravity
effortlessly lifting all six feet of me off the ground,
pressing my cheek against the cutoff edge of his tie dye tank top,
my blonde hair tugging between his chest and mine

So with fuzzy lemonade on my lips
and bass players hands on my hips
I figured out I didn't need shoes
if i never touched the ground.

You sit it in a corner of your room
You water it, you feed it.
You change it’s soil after it ***** the nutrients from under the previous filth.
You are never bored of your houseplant.
You get bored of everything else but the plant is always constant, always routine.

Then one day you spot another houseplant
Sitting in the corner of the botanical garden
Or perhaps you find it online and meet to see it in person
On a window or shelf. Regardless of place it is always exhibiting itself to you.
The novelty strikes one like it isn’t a plant at all, but something much bigger.
You throw away the old and sit the new one in the same corner of your room.
You water it, you feed it.
You change it’s soil after it ***** the nutrients out of your own filth.

When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.

The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.

Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.

Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.

It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?

you're a houseplant
you're an object
it doesn't matter what you say
no one is listening anyway

I used to have a plant that I loved.
The ones before neglected and left it
alone in the dark. At the base, there are still scars
yet I stared in awe whenever I saw it.
It had pink flowers mixed with bits of blue,
with a slim, tall, and strong frame.
The *** was white with a round bottom,
with red spots exposed by the chipped paint.
I loved it so hard because I wanted it to thrive,
but maybe I did too much. Every plant is different.
There was already yellow at the ends;
I didn’t notice the overwatering.
It hurt to see the plant go even though
I gave it love, and I thought it was enough.

I always get the jokes honey
When you wave them around in my face long enough
Genius
So that's what I did to you. Well not the genius inborn or created from the needs. That part that was well-hidden just like the rest. It's your way. But
(I'm aghast for real about the damage it is much worse than I could have thought)
And I get it
Well not your end. I know how it felt for me and I wouldn't wish that on anyone
But anyway now I can see  what you laid out
Or didn't
Last night

I usually get there
about 12-24 hours too late
Ohhh.. Sound! Music!
Bright shiny things!
Magicians! Cotton candy clouds!
Zombies! Flaky puffs! Hot stuff!
800 thousand other metaphors
Love!? And other things
Except one. Right. I feared as much.
Gulp. Awful.

And hey now look it's March!
Spriiiing is coming
Thawing
Ground will be fertile again
Someday
Good thing because my houseplant is on life support

I have to stop now before I get...
Never Mind

It's grist for the cotton gin
It's a bit like that time
I broke my ankle
And my mom cared enough to only wait a week
Before sending me for an X-ray. True story
But the damage was already done and
So what. I had a mom who loved me and I still do
In her odd detached way
So I still hobble on
A broken ankle
But I hobble
Try to engage myself
Hobble not run
Because that's all I can do
But not to you
Go ahead, you can laugh at my limp but that doesn't keep me from walking through the rest of my shattered life
Picking up pieces
[Because the thing about me that you cannot fathom is
That I don't lie about anything]
All I want to fabricate is pathways and/or walls where they are called for
I just don't tell the entire truth
And if you want it I'll probably tell you
The whole truth
Which is "better" which is "worse"? Fabrication/grinding or creating/welding?
Who cares anymore?
I do.
Because it all hurts so much
But out it comes, out from all of us
So ok
Let it flow

Look around
Ouchies
And beauty too

I do see it all everywhere, whereas you see...who knows. I think you see more but just though a different lense. Wickedly bright and sharp and yes, strong. You should get a patent! But you are not all right or all wrong and neither am I. Just different and wonderful in our own rights.

So look away look here look there do what you do do what you want you're free as a bird and you always were. I broke a wing but you're flying stronger than ever. What an accomplishment. Proud of you and I'm grateful it was survivable.

Just incredible