When I lived in a dead city I took a trip to Home Depot in hope of
finding the flora that might bring some vibrancy to the world around me.
I looked amongst the lilacs and tulips, the orchids and snapdragons,
The petunias, palms, prickly pears, plums, and pines,
but none had the vivacity, the spark I had l yearned for.
Not to mention the soil and manure
pungent smells that i’m sure were nothing festering grounds
designed to multiply the bullshit from which it comes
To look for the recreation of the glitters of our past
in new things is much like an exercise in insanity
by repetition of ones mistakes and expecting different results
despite knowing you’re so much better than this. it’s like
when frogs have their heads chopped off
and their hearts continue
to beat on as long
as their adenosine triphosphates are in agreement.
It’s not too far off to believe that humans still have electricity
left over in their muscles, even though everyone thought
that they were dead a long long time ago.
Something about the pretty girl alone at this Applebee’s bar and me being a dweeb imaging 200 situations is artsy as fuck. I should write a poem or something.