Peom by me
Dandelions stain my new jeans when I roll around in the grass. What do you want to dye? When I’m old. The grassblades scratch my sunburnt belly. I forgot to put the SPF lotion there, now my tattoo’s are peeling off and they’re starting to dance. My fingernails start to slide off my fingers because the sun is melting them, showing off my bones like popsicle sticks. That didn’t happen. I still have all nine. I changed the story from toes to fingers. But it didn’t actually happen. I have all eight. Sunburns can feel like napalm. So can heartache. So can napalm. The world is on fire. But fire is life. Still. I’m not overthinking, I'm thinking about everything. I’m present and past. I still feel the earthquakes even though I’m focused on crying. Some things have more weight than the plates shaking.
I pass by a friend in the street and he says “what’s up, bruh?”. I say “how do you do, bruh”. He flies away with the rest of them. The V formation. What way am I going? I’m lost, and so are you. This is gibberish, though it’s special to me because I feel it. I missed the sun, and it’s hiding again. I feel like I just got it back and it’s left again. The sun doesn’t care because it’s independent of people. What’s want and what’s need. More gibberish. Take everything literally. Don’t. Listen to the birds when they speak in the early morning even though they don’t brush their beaks. They get the worms to do that. You could also boil them and take out the scum that floats to the top of the pot. It reminds you of the sea. You gotta go back. Have a swim. Talk to strangers and fish at the beach. Eat something tasty and savor it. Swim in the ocean and feel the salt water on your lips; after that smoke a cigarette. Take the two fingers that I have left. Look up to the sky and pretend you’re grabbing the sun. It burns my fingers and your eyes. I forgot SPF lotion and you forgot sunglasses. I give you my glasses and you give me your lotion. We take the sun for ourselves and look at it; we light our cigarettes with it and then we put it back. It’s not ours, it’s everybody’s. Or it’s nobody’s; yes. When do the trumpets play? I know when the tuba does.
My one finger is wrinkled and burnt. The rest have melted away. I’m sorry but I’m lying again. I have all of them. Eight fingers and two thumbs I used to say. I was the first to ever say that. Grass blades are not sharp at all; not to me. Grass blades are sharp to ants maybe. My skin will heal, my heart has, my finger has. My jeans will be okay. You’re not supposed to fix those. Everything. You know what I mean?
