In biology, non-natives naturalize after spreading into the wild
Naturalized species may become invasive
Legally, non-natives naturalize by statute or approval
Naturalized species are tightly controlled
Some populations are unable to sustain themselves
Non-sustaining populations are said to be adventive
ravenous,
starving,
craving,
longing for
intriguing conversation
This
lack of mental fuel
left me
famished,
for intellect
and conscious reasoning
This
thirst, my motivation,
for drinking
you in,
satisfying
the need of
a malnourished mind
(content warning: nonexplicit dead animals/roadkill)
Rudbeckia
(June 1st)
endless storms of bruise-eyed gold, a pleasant way to begin a journey guarded by their Argus-eyed fields
you are… bold, pugnacious, it’s not for nothing they call you black-eyed Susan
horoscope: you will flourish like the sun-stars of the galaxy, your stories and beauty remembered in a silent, not-quite-as-they-happened way
Tire rubber – multitudes
(June 3rd)
entire nations must have been turned to this, fairy tale folk cursed to tire treads when they refused a traveler shelter
you are… unnatural, daring, shredded with overwork
horoscope: you will peel like a snake emerging its skin so thoroughly that its bones come out instead, but in doing so, you will meet the court of your kind in all their thousands
Armadillo (dead)
(June 7th)
rolled onto its back like the world is the one who is upside-down
you are… shy, resilient, protective of the things you can’t stand to lose again
horoscope: you will curl up in the hope of safety and remain that way for precisely one eon; when you emerge to find the world has killed the old horrors to create new dangers for you to endure
Mimosa
(June 8th)
it peers out from its cousins’ bodies, pink of the throw pillow on a grandmother’s dust-fearing couch
you are… watchful, observant, solitary like a prophet
horoscope: you will taste the wind off the world and off the wanderers as they pass, seeing their futures and features in flames and beauty and always fearing both
Fawn – two (dead)
(June 9th)
my god, you could picture them staring at you, godhood and godless staring at you from the woods they wear as a cloak
you are… naive, pure, mystic as the child of an old deity
horoscope: you will lie down suddenly, woundless, white belly clear and cloud-spotted back, uncertain what it is that ended who you were but certain that you must leave the beauty of the woods
Road – milled
(June 11th)
it sings like a phantom searching for its memories; hear it sing beneath your tires notes no living human knows
you are… artistic, obsessive, unable to look at the same painting more than once
horoscope: you will stretch yourself too thin to remember who you are; you will take travelers on your skin and stretch into the distance like the constellations of old
There was a lot close to our neighborhood where people flew their model airplanes
Dad would pull over and stop, and we would get out and watch
I was around five at the time
I wanted one of those planes
Dad said no
So I nailed two pieces of wood together and attached two little pill bottles filled with water for gas tanks
I announced that my model plane would fly
My parents told me not to get my hopes up
They were right
It didn’t fly.
The dream nears its end as the doc pronounces: “Petalia.”
I fight to stay on the knowing side of the sleep divide
to learn the meaning of this diagnosis.
Yellow light pools under sleep’s door toward me,
no stopping consciousness with towels or sponges.
“It’s a disease that —”
And I am awake.
Petalia. Petallya? Petal-ya? Petal-yall?
Since I cannot open and walk back through
the dream doctor’s office door
to demand the definition
I define it myself, Fictionary style:
“Petalia, n. 1. The point in summer
when the number of leaves on trees and plants
reaches its peak
after which leaf decline begins.
2. archaic A forest fairy festival
that celebrates peak leaf number
and welcomes the decline that follows.”
I know now I’d taken my cherry trees to the dream doc
because great piles of yellow leaves skirt their trunks.
It’s artificial autumn three months early, for two trees only.
Blumeriella jaapii, you unwanted visitor,
you fungal pathogen,
Are you the “Petalia” in my dream?
Must I make you welcome,
or may I decline?
Stay with you or work?
A choice that I make quickly.
(1) Missed Call: My Boss
standing before the gate
guardian and pedestal both.
enbrancing an dishonorable system of all things—
it sniffs coyly about, intrusive
—and discerns the nature of all matter
as if knowing all of true alchemy and
preserving prototypes of both material
and humming realms.
I find this to be something no greater that a requiem
for there is no greater abyss than falling
and no fear that is set further.
But pensive, this beast with its truncating presence
and slight salvations, lingers
and decides
american derelict put the barrel through your lips
american derelict cut to the marrow just to exist
it’s imperative like an american terrorist
that’s fool’s gold far from twenty four carat shit
it’s an embarrassment of arrogance
dare resist the plastic bouquet of narratives
stare into the abyss
the electric chair it is
care about the kids
nah the director’s chair it is
character assassinator
err on the rise of the elevator
keep your eyes on that green paper
you a dreamchaser or a dream maker
hard to be either when you leanin and you laid up
but you fiendin for something greater
like Anita Baker
ya need to bake up
right quick
mentally addicted
oh the penalty of livin
your enemy dictatin what you feelin
gimme gimme culture that’s all that they givin into the pot
cut ten percent off the top
of the tenements
in a sense no innocence is sittin on that white picket fence
tryna ride it like humpty dumpty
can you hear that one cricket cringe
you gotta pick a side
when it comes down to whether people gon live or die
but money money in their eyes
just cuz they live uptight
they gon bring gray clouds to sunny skies
one more time tell me why
oh yeah cuz we’re fucked up
that’s right
My son came upon me
mopping blood from my thighs
on the first day of my period.
He began to cry
and with red hands
I desperately knelt to comfort him
Mama! What’s wrong? You’re hurt!
No, baby, I’m fine.
But, you’re bleeding! Why?
I was silent, still rocking him.
How to explain?
I didn’t make life this month, honey.
He put his clean hand on my cheek
and smiled.
You made mine, Mama.
That initial spark is intoxicating, isn’t it my dear?
It’s the sun that you stare at for so long
that your vision gets disrupted by those dark spots
where shadows can hide in plain sight, whispering
because you’d never hear them over your beating heart.
Then the sun goes away and your eyes
start to shake the overwhelming veil thrown on them.
Doubt tells you secrets you know already.
Meanwhile, the shadows realize they’re starting to blend
into darkness of night, essence of their soul
so he makes sure to bring the sun back
which you stare at again, falling into his Circadian trap.
Could be just a word, a message sent
that becomes dawn to your heart, but not too much
because he is not a creature of the light.
Have you ever wondered where he goes in the night?
How does he pass the time, where does he sleep?
These are worries the sun makes you forget
when it reaches through your retinas to your recollections,
collecting them and convincing you to let go.
It’s a cycle of abuse through subtle sins
but it’s weak if you can find the right point to press,
even if that point is a pin hovering just above
your eyes for him, where the only problem
is finding the courage to blind yourself to his charm.
