Mente Mezcla

i am just going to put this out there now to make midnight blush and turtle babies crack their way to the sea here it is: children puffing pollen air bound in spring, empty stem in hand ice cream dripping down chins and thighs on hot summer nights lovers making just that in public where only a few can see, (i know i watch) remembering paris beyond the architecture, art in the people harlots with sad eyes lit red, with a glimmer of blue hope end or beginning.

The sunflowers have frosted over and it smells like snow. I did not go back for a coat. Once I close a door, I do not reopen it.

Sometimes it's amazing, the things we call weeds. blemish, spot, curse, scourge, (even minor imperfection) we cast aside veins and ribs, doubt worth: an ant's journey, carrying a wounder warrior home on its back across a discarded leaf. and in the blossoms bees massage nectar and whether rose or dandelion, the only difference: flavor there's nutrition in dandelion just the same. and while less sweet, there would be no balance without savory. so my friendly weeds, i celebrate you with tender consideration of your rung in the at once gentle and violent organic process known as life.