My Love is a Colorful Manifesto
At its purest, my love is a weed centered in your backyard.
It fractally unfurls green arms and shouts all its bright yellow
at your sun. On the tip of your tongue, like last fall’s honey
blunting your stinger, like losing the plot within your time-lapse
photography, my love pops off, blown, clocked on the easiest breeze,
a downy dandelion head wisping away in silvered pieces. Also, my love
is an unidentified white powder in an envelope with no return address.
It’s the real deal, guaranteed to make you sick, a personalized virus,
only your name wet on its pink lips slipping over your threshold. Please
whisper its disease. Call its cell as my love is frantically trying to blow up.
My love is a colorful manifesto and plans, soon, to be the leading story
on your 6 o’clock news. But until then, and after an exhausting day of
panhandling for your spare change, my love backs a long cold swallow
of your amnesia with a wish chaser. My love always comes to, hours later
and face down, in your dark damp grass, mere steps from your front door.
And if you did let my love into your house,
it would paw and scrape at your braided rug, turn around three times in
a flea-bitten circle, lie beside the warm hiss and crackle of your orange
tabby fire and dream dog dreams. My love would probably piss and shit
all over the place. Instead, each morning my love howls to its reflection
in the sky that the time has arrived to stopper your bottle. Each gray morning
my love groans upward, knowing well how unlikely this is to ever happen.
My love knows better than anything how much its willpower blows.
My love could make you sneeze, cough, cry and itch. My love might
kill you, turn you blue, or at the very least, appoint you as a bitch,
and surely, my love will fuck up your lawn. Yet, again and again my love
gets away with it, even while hoping to get caught.
Mostly, my love is a lot of talk. It’d be happy just to run your red lights
and blow your stop signs. It wants to trespass and vandalize. It wants to break in.
It’d be honored to star with you in an episode of COPS. My love is a release form.
On it you must put your name. My love needs your black ink bleeding through
its pages. It wants to be in the same backseat, same broadcast, same gust of wind
as you. Leave your window cracked for my love, and together
we can defeat the purpose.