no linebreaks; i'm so bored

the fog descends like shooting stars to isolate me from the end of the world. i tore out my eyes and tossed them as far as i could through the mist but the only thing i could see was dirt. water molecules were clinging to the air and i wished i could be that important to someone. the distant sun cast rainbows through the air; i couldn't catch sight of them as my eyes were focused on the earth. it kept spinning and i got dizzy. the air is too afraid of commitment so when the fog cleared it was because all the water had fallen to the ground. at first the earth offers stability but then it sucks you up. all the water droplets figured that out pretty soon. the air was clear but i didn't know where i'd put my eyes so i gave up, which i should have done in the first place but it took some isolation for me to develop that sort of wisdom.

revisions

an expedition to rediscover cycles OR how seashells are born

I. roses condensed on the head of a pin
and i tried to stuff my ears full of orchids,
but they dried up and died so quickly.
i can’t press them between the pages of books
or embalm them like dead kings. they are trapped
in a basket of evanescence, scattered easily
by wind, like wind, past any rapidly blooming fingers
that try to catch them but don’t.
my liver swelled up and split
when the seeds were discovered to be sterile;
no new blossoms of baby’s breath to brush against cheeks,
no frigid blue forget-me-nots to reassure.

II. i plucked roses out of stoplights
and crammed them into my pockets,
hoping they would prevent everyone from going
and leaving me. but my green eyes
gave them permission.
i tried to follow,
but the light turned yellow
and trapped me at the intersection.

III. we sailed across an ocean in a canoe,
throwing flower petals at the sharks
that haunted our wake like the ghosts
we were. each crest was a fight
for our lives
and each trough a celebration.
and every storm we battled was on a calm sea.

IV. i filled a dish with sugar and water
and set it out for the butterflies.
of course it attracted moths.
i couldn’t distract the butterflies from their flowers,
and maybe i didn’t want to.

V. everyone brought orchids to the wake
in their hands, and orchids spilled
from everyone’s mouths.
they never realized i was in the middle of an ocean,
still sailing, and they never realized
that their flowers were worthless, but eventually
i did.

VI. our canoe capsized
and i sank to the ocean floor.
i discovered that coral doesn’t betray
or hate or rot or drive off.
there were fish down there and we talked at length,
and their eyes were always wide and attentive.

VII. at the wake there were tears
and plastic forget-me-nots and condolence cards.
but tears are made of water
and salt, not sugar,
so i never came back.

VIII. i held garden parties underwater,
with moths and bright lonely anglerfish.
with every flap of their wings,
the moths left a trail of shimmering dust
until they had all fully disintegrated
into surreality.
the anglerfish and i
shed no tears, as the ocean was saline enough.
but where the dust had settled,
we planted coral in memoriam.
the anglerfish flickered on and off
like streetlights.

IX. i swam to the surface
and found that the canoe had been righted.
we resumed our expedition, now accompanied
by seagulls. they showed us land, like noah’s dove,
and flew off once we reached safe harbor.
and from our ark they stole the desiccated husks
of flowers, but we would have offered
if they’d chosen to ask.

X. the wake carried on
until it mutated into a funeral,
and they buried me under their orchids.

XI. we left our canoe behind
and entered the land of the lotus eaters.
they gave us apathy and flowers
and our dreams were softer.
but the spirit of odysseus drove us onward,
to a lonely restless life of wandering,
to the fulfillment of soft dreams.

XII. crushed under the weight of soil
and well-meaning orchids,
i discovered a use for tears.
wrapped up in salt, i never decayed
and my memory was preserved,
although i was forgotten.

XIII. we tore out my eye
and buried it under the beach.
it was the first fertile seed we ever found
and it blossomed into an epiphany.
i sent you back across the ocean
to leave it at my grave
while i stood on the beach
and disintegrated into shimmering dust.

an expedition to rediscover cycles OR how seashells are born

I. roses condensed on the head of a pin
and i tried to stuff my ears full of orchids,
but they dried up and died so quickly.
i can't press them between the pages of books
or embalm them like dead kings. they are trapped
in a basket of evanescence, scattered easily
by wind, like wind, past any rapidly blooming fingers
that try to catch them but don't.
my liver swelled up and split
when the seeds were discovered to be sterile;
no new blossoms of baby's breath to brush against cheeks,
no frigid blue forget-me-nots to reassure.

II. we sailed across an ocean in a canoe,
throwing flowers petals at the sharks
that haunted our wake like the ghosts we were.
each crest was a fight for our lives, and each trough
a celebration. and every storm we battled
was on a calm sea.

III. i plucked roses out of stoplights
and stuffed them into my pockets,
hoping they would prevent everyone from going
and leaving me. but my green eyes
gave them permission.
i tried to follow,
but the light turned yellow
and trapped me at the intersection.

IV. i filled a dish with sugar and water
and set it out for the butterflies.
of course it attracted moths.

V. everyone brought orchids in their hands
to the wake, and orchids spilled
from everyone's mouths.
they didn't realize i was in the middle of an ocean,
still sailing. and they never realized that their flowers
were worthless, but eventually
i did.

VI. our canoe capsized
and i sank to the ocean floor.
i discovered that coral doesn't betray
or hate or rot or drive away.
there were fish down there and we talked at length,
and their eyes were always wide and attentive.

VII. at the wake there were tears
and plastic forget-me-nots and condolence cards.
but tears are made of water
and salt, not sugar,
so i never came back.

VIII. i held garden parties underwater,
with moths and bright lonely anglerfish.
with every flap of their wings,
the moths left a trail of shimmering dust
until they had all fully disintegrated
into surreality. the anglerfish and i
shed no tears, as the ocean was saline enough.
but where the dust had settled,
we planted coral in memoriam.
the anglerfish flickered on and off
like streetlights.

IX. i swam to the surface
and found that the canoe had been righted.
we resumed our expedition, now accompanied
by seagulls. they showed us land, like noah's dove,
and flew off once we reached safe harbor.

X. the wake carried on
until it mutated into a funeral,
and they buried me with orchids.

XI. we left our canoe behind
and entered the land of the lotus eaters.
they gave us apathy and flowers
and our dreams were softer.
but the spirit of odysseus drove us onward,
to a lonely restless life of wandering,
to the fulfillment of soft dreams.

XII. crushed under the weight of soil
and well-meaning orchids,
i discovered a use for tears.
wrapped up in salt, i never decayed
and my memory was preserved.
but i was forgotten.

XIII. we plucked out my eye
and buried it under the beach.
it was the first fertile seed we ever found
and it blossomed into an epiphany.
i sent you back across the ocean
to leave it at my grave
while i stood on the beach
and disintegrated into shimmering dust.