Declaration

by m. head

I am not for sale.  I am the whistling of roses. I am the dragonfly that pollinates a nose full of lilies.  I am so infinitely mine—invisible as air, and as heavy as a grain of sand. 

I walk between art and life, between man and his shadow, between conflict and resolution, needing only the drowse of daffodils to sustain me.  A penny in my pocket, and a daisy drenching my hair, I solve philosophical equations that pertain to my soul’s jangling individuation—a craftsman, a seer of fine things, a rustler of visceral speech, a friend beyond all things.  Let me take you there. 
 
Spring is on the doorstep and I’m covered in rain.  Hardly a man or woman could explain the purpose of a season that reinvigorates the fatefully downtrodden.  The moon sips tea with the stars, dressed to kill, shedding a corpulent light.  Sitting out here on the grass, I feel the dew begin to propogate, and the wind begin to whisper tales of drunken vessels and sirens if the past. 
 
The present is gorged with a reality that reeks of margaritas and salsa chips.  I am a victim of your atomic eyes coupling by the drainpipes of a seedy side-cafe.  And I hear the trippy tine of natural music dripping down the gutters—it is the damsel of my domain.  It threads the needle of life with deft ease.  It is a feeling and a flight; it is a drug of legal proportions.  And to amplify this feeling is to know a goddess of this tactile world.  

I am am not for sale.  And I am not for keeps. I desire the silence of a church, and the banter of a festival.  I dream in the dust of bodegas, and doze in the fog under a tree conjuring electrical ladies.  And I have heard the wild horses of mortality whinnying at my back.  Catch me if you can. Bring the death cloth when the apple has fallen from the tree. I’ll be there waiting with a cross, a dream, and a fight.  

I need but a drop of a hat to clear my soul of the mischief that plagues my heart and instills me with love.