grounded—
bare feet pressed to tired earth,
simple land i’d stumbled upon searching.
yellow, the butterfly’s wings,
woven from linen.

it’s all an itchy tag playing at my neck.
i don’t much care for peace, do i?

think i’d rather a beer.
poured sweet through the lips;
my coarse hands upon your narrow hips—
kissing you madly at the bar—
snarl at the man across the way,
not from instinct,
as antichrist,
that unsane twisted freedom
we subscribed to:

we’ll swallow no lithium.

-

tomorrow morning,
then
let me yearn for peace

when the headache
splits me clean down the circuits,
a bumblebee buzzing
around my electrified ankle

—

when was it you grow so tired of me, love?