I’m a plant. I am a pretty little colorful flower and I will only grow- I will only exist and survive and be- if you sprinkle me with salt water. If you drizzle the ocean onto my head and bless me with throbbing whispers of creaky ship-prayers and gasps for oxygen. How am I going to make it if I am not pushing myself up out of sand-soil? Seriously, I don’t think this all-natural process of photosynthesis, of self-feeding and fueling, is going to take place if I do not have these additional, necessary, life-supplying elements.
……….
It exfoliates my heart
and puckers me into an eternal kiss
You are my only true love(r).
……….
In my special secret spot behind the love-seat I am swaddled with printed fabrics that I never got around to making into anything and I think inside of my head of the ocean and the sky and the flowers, and the mountains when I open my eyes are right there past the window but I am still sitting right here in my very small very sun light bright spot.
[out out damn spot!]
……….
Just think of it- all the starfish spilt in two and instead of growing back in normality to have five limbs they have four and the fifth becomes a nub of a head and they trek up the shore up the beach and across the parking lot exponentially expanding in size and paling in color until they become almost-people except their stomach is still on the outside in the middle not the inside and they still aren’t wearing any clothes, which is what is the weird part, but shouldn’t be. Do you know how many starfish there are down there underneath in the water? And how many more briefcases there would have to be to accommodate? (les serviettes) Because of course they would want to get straight to business, wouldn’t they?
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