last night I was sleepin' in
the garden of
Charged Flowers
touching every smoky bloom
& sucking on the stems
carried it into the day as
I
am going to get my hair cut,
just the tips I think and
not anything else they are damaged
and
on the way,
well,
there is this tree
but, also
there is a man too
it's not that
the tree is a man
or
maybe the other way
not exclusively they
are both
of those things
all once.
rather dialectic?
well, anyway,
he (it?) asks me
where I am going,
to get my hair cut,
I say, but,
I am scared.
why?
well, the scissors
the
terrible form and function
you cannot go back.
well, no, not really,
the roots you know, they
are always growing
s p r e a d i n g.
well, but, you can see mine,
everyone can.
it's different for you, hidden
under all that pavement.
I think, he says
that it is not the scissors but
something else, and
then I am reminded of the bus
last last night
how everyone so still sitting there
I look out to the lights can
they see them too?
but I think
they are too fixated
minding where they are
in the solar system of
each other's bodies
who they are
sitting next to and
how that scarf fits
are my nylons running and
do I want them to?
they seem to put every
emotion in
the way they arrange
the strands of their hair.
if I could wear boots I
think I would like
wearing boots, I could be
someone who wears cowboy boots
every day, but
I can't and
I don't feel the surface
I don't
orbit in anyone's solar system
I can't hear the sound.
I am going to get my hair cut,
just,
the tips I hope, and
not the roots.