under a spring moon
|Daily Deviations I featured during my time as a volunteer and staff member.|
The Daphne BushMother moved us often, baggage and boxes
jumbled in a truck, any number
of crying kids, and her daphne
in its Oriental pot. Even when we'd stay
to see the spring
flower-beds in bloom, long enough
to harvest vegetables grown from seed,
the daphne remained
in its place on the porch, cradled in clay
and whiskered Chinese dragons.
You can't transplant this,
she'd tell us, delicately
brushing the deep jade of its leaves,
ladling water onto its roots,
It won't thrive. And every year,
wherever we were,
the stunted thing returned her love
with perfume and a thousand pink hearts.
Survivalist NewsletterDear Survivalists,
In light of the recent remission of people
we are writing you today.
You see, the exit plans are only provisions
for leaving a beautiful sort of language
of fossil records,
like entire rogue planets in red bloom,
as warnings between the architecture
of a fresh wreckage.
And the most romantic spin is that we've succeeded
but only briefly-
of a scenario of beached whales;
the reckless communism of the sun.
To those who are receiving this:
God has been missing for several years
and a body was never found.
Our advice is to desecrate your atlases
as a sacrament to whatever it is
that we've pissed off this time.
Cut them down, cut them and spread them
across the lamp, the walls,
the threshold of your shitty apartment
and take drugs that remind you of the people
you once were
because everything is wonderful
but only on paper.
And on paper we must remain,
upright and angry. We must remain
with our music and stories. We must remain.
Our assurance is in your s