These new buildings, I swear they got no soul.
They need to grow into words, become particles on a page, rise, metabolize into earthen words, soil, dust conjunctions filled with creamy authenticity, reshaped, interpreted into life.
They’re turkey stuffed with dust ball offices, lights dimmed in the simmering evening, windows reflecting hybrids who breed upon the free range freeway below suffering from ever-increasing lane exposure.
I looked inside their forever blowing bubbles pressing my mug upon the surface and it distorted my viciousness. No mild bologna gonna fix my sandwich.
They think me a freak, freckles with a face, go figure… frizzled fleshpot of unpredictable plots.
They ain’t wrong, ‘cuz they good, they good, yep, goooooooood, …enticing me with their mixed-use bottom floors where they burn rubber on tofu plates salad Westinghouse.
I smell the leftover spice route and I’m drooling like a starving scribbler, my bent nickels hitting hard, their floors a fool’s concrete.
Still sitting ugly next to pretties, they pipe in pop opera, jaded hip hop, indie stink, and heavy rectal, tuned down, so low it makes my Spock ears quiver and my head turn to tuna until I’m ordering La Luna and every other constellation that’s hung up on itself back in the kitchen.
I don’t have time to listen to Jack. I’m elevator resistant and refuse a free ride into debt’s penthouse.
I’m trying for the dirt dangling in the unbought lot where the weeds bloom, to give shouts out to the invasive species and expose the beauty of my immigrant fat ass.
My socked feet brush waxed tiles and I know I’m just a plastic tangle from the womb of a wannabe hippie.
My words grow condominiums in the community garden and I have my own private manure.
The stingless bees only last once a year, a one-and-done pollination, vegetables appear on my plate, I ate, I am eaten, soft-skinned new building, digging in the foundation for soul.