Roses

The Hell of those who trusted you. The ball of the gardens people built into you. The cliff where the starlings show off for the sky, as they veer past your name. The people you invite into you. The doctors who walk around carrying batteries, just in case. Famous liberators grandstanding. The poets following the starlings with their eyes. The fractals of the starlings. The fractals of the poet eyes. I don't consider that much. What about a human walking down fucking somebody? What about that? Well that's like a tombstone way up in a western mountain. That's like credibility in a single ray of sun falling on your forehead in the porn film you don't remember making. But I do. I remember you making it. You were five and they gave you a grape soda to do it. It wasn't nearly as glamorous as you remember. Already, you had that Jeff Koons streak. Somebody should let a racoon loose at his funeral. I'm sorry, that's just how I feel.