Flower Town

i drove you to to go get soil.

the place near the park, on the right side of the street coming from my old house

and you said goodbye,

gardening the way you (I) imagined, in a detailed outline, Jesus would garden,

waving off the seedlings into the loose soil,

because you’ve got no children, and you’re thirty-five too,

which is a shame, this aging business,

and this is what you do with your time now,

going to the library (on my account) and reading about flowers dutifully,

scanning essential pages and returning the books promptly.

i see you with dirty knees in my garden (you have an apartment still)

and you have a full beard for verisimilitude

and our dead friend used to say you were too genuine

and i start to realize

that everything i ever claimed i knew, i didn’t actually know.

like what happens after you die

or what animal hot dogs and pepperoni comes from

or everything about Chinese dynasties

or how to quantify explosions

and units of pain,

or where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet,

and really, since the water knows no border,

being only water,

aren’t all bodies of water singular?

does it make sense to say two bodies of water have never met?

does that make my urine the Pacific ocean?

or just the Puget sound?

or exclusively west Puget sound?

where is the line?

(in retrospect, i have urinated in south Puget sound much more regularly, and with much more volume

and clearly, with much more interesting residual contents)

(but you saw this and you know this)

and what yet, i remember a poem i wrote about this before, maybe a year ago

and i remember thinking of the same friend i think of now, our friend named Brian,

when i wrote that poem too,

and all words, singular though too, i now realize,

a factual singularity that provides silence,

like when you tell a friend another friend is dead or dying or pregnant

that rippling singularity you can’t argue with

that all words and letters have a mutual origin,

a mysterious place, a place that invokes paranoia,

(mostly because we are high when we think about these things,

and other unfortunate things)

and i remember that only Italians like totality.

that only like wholeness.

and i don’t like this sense of contradictions and the need to sense contradictions.

i feel no contradictions nor do i fear them

when i drink beer and pee in the ocean, or the sound, or whatever, at the same time

like i am a living fountain

at once inhaling and exhaling.

not feeling bored or boring

knowing wholeness and singularities

because i know people named Sergio

and people named Imad

and people named Ashley or Star

and they don’t know anything of each other.

they never saw us, pissing in the Indian Ocean,

or the Black Sea, or on the lips of beaches,

the bottoms of trenches,

the hulls of boats bigger than every house we ever lived in,

as he high-fived and swore off death and her relatives

(named Anguish, Madness, Desire, Despair and Fate)

while our friend, a man named Tharn McLeod

chain smoked on a log,

half-mumbling a threat to piss in an open convertible,

a testament of his (and in a way our)

unyielding anguish.

they never saw us.

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