Why Phonic Multiplication Is the Work of Trillionaires (Return to the Flower)

Wikipedia Poem, No. 723


“I’d like to return to the flower, / and from the flower, / to my heart.” Lorca, Oct. 1923

On an oedipal level, what a feeling!

Thrilled little clouds in the supermarket: No, I want that. Was it in the supermarket? No, I want that in the car and still make the wrong-colored little clouds. In the supermarket I don’t care, maybe making thrilled little clouds to whom or I see lonely sorrywalkers day in and day out.

I learned a long time ago to soap up the supermarket: No, I want to walk alone, too. Today I learned to be sorry, but I do not care. Remember the red sweater scented with alcohol? I’ve decided that, lathering into the supermarket.

Green wants to see sorry paroxysms leveled. One green sun is never enough. I want that, I said, thinking about lobster blood for years, terminally. What will be enough one day? What will be enough one day. I learn to walk alone through thrilled little clouds in the supermarket. No, I just want to be sorry, but I can’t imitate not caring.