Nothing but white noise
while I'm missing my blue noise,
my indigo and violet noise,
my red autumn leaf noise--
the crunch.
Like granola between my molars, like toothpaste
and nuclear waste recycled
into stylish lunchbags
while the ospreys bloat in the sun
and give birth to plastic figurines.
It's all hazy these days,
and I just remember
the mist hiding my eyes is
the spray of the ocean in the air is
the dew leaping from pebbles to your toes
while you search for color
amongst dead flowers
on a balcony somewhere
not so far.
Other people would tell this story differently, and none of them would be wrong. (Barbara Kingsolver) Mostly stream of consciousness writing by a young queer person with too many words.
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