Insulation of pink, pricklies stabbing and licking to madness, thick rolling in dirty dry sweat. Pounding the sweet words (once they were) into sad squares of unforgiving wood… attacking poetry like bombastic carpentry, he will drill and screw and tighten the clamps, forcing it true.
What do I see… what do see… what see… See, there in the buttercup under the truck, look and you can’t see with me…the truck driven there… I the flower under the truck… gold, bright, reflecting up, fragile, alive… to drive away, to pay…from the prussian blue stepping away, so far away…gone…the flower under the Ford truck… reflected in the buttercup the staggering lie with whiskey on its breath. He down digs dirt with a shovel and asks me what I see.
Pine tree in my shoe…oh just to be the nice lady Who Brings The Food.