borderline immigrant

My name is fuck. I live under the porch, smoking sweet daffodils and I plant the trash in the garden to grow rubber trees and oxycontin. When will it grow? I’ll say business is good though no one reads the papers, no one sees the advertisements in the sky.

I don’t pay for it I scab, I tend only and make nothing. If you were here you’d scab too

The smoke of so many fires suffocates the sickly child under the porch, it was good and bearable, who doesn’t enjoy the warmth. Sleep on rubber plants and oil drums and dream of sad lakes in New York state. “Suffer for your crimes” you sweet, radiant angel. “You are perfect I promise”.

How do you let go of you. How do I?

Thank you for your home. I am so happy here. I scream so quiet because there’s so much in my throat I can’t let my ghost swim up over the bush. I miss the trees sometimes. I won’t let myself project, but I can’t tell if my life is happening.

Can you see the smoke? Inside the patio-cave, she’s soaking up the garden like the sun, tending to every flower and caterpillar

I feel like a man, and I know I’m not. It’s like a kaleidoscope, a different shade every day and glass shapes meshing together in a dangerous mid-air collage. But I am happy here selling nothing and growing little, as long as I can just live I can be happy. What must you think of me.

Please let me live, I can’t let go yet I have no where else to live. But I want to share this. Please visit me, there are no trees here can you believe it?