The Poet Alchemist

I picked sunflowers today.
three people stopped to ask if i had lost my way
as if joy this bright must mean something is erroneous.

I demand a lobotomy.
Clear out the library of pain
that clogs my mind like dusty shelves.

I stood in the dim hallway, unable to take another step, but I had to go to the restroom.

Taking a deep breath, I ran.

Body Full of Weather

The body keeps its own weather—
storms of memory, desire, grief, rage, tenderness,
and becoming.