We were Waste and Welter There in the Day: Facebook, and: Home Filled with Thousands of Flowers

We were waste and welter there in the day: facebook

The universe is the ultimate free lunch. Alan Guth

Appropriation is the only conversation to have. I dream the samewave is breaking over me, aqua alga bloom. Everyone is watching onshore, wind lost in its own white music. Or is it white noise? The kindof machine you buy so you can't hear your neighbor. You know, the oneyou heard through the hedge wall where hungry pigeons were breeding.Who can blame your theft for feeling? Come to me, dear thousand friends,I do not know: I will share. Cockle and critical mass and tracking our electronsfrom unruly kingdoms of north and south in the black hole's spinning top,Newton on the way to the store, with shorthand flurry and fleeing from . . .America's imaginative engagement is sex and war, unverifiable claim whatcannot be in the stash cash. Looks like me in your photo. Looks like a motion agowas expulsion, dull dish rebrand again. Costume cosmic context in the musicsilenced in the bushes. I don't even know what it sounds like in my own closetwhen closed in and alone. Faith here fails its own science, is an art argumentwith thrown bread, blood puddings and dining chairs, the petted dead,quicklime, pollution and a plum for the sleeping eye. Welcome now. Welcome. . .

Home filled with thousands of flowers

          so many flowers you couldn't breathe coming inthe front door, rising lilac-bruised and picked and plucked fresh,slipping on hothouse skins, hot-headed-red over green, in spring'stemper tantrum in silence for this . . . wedding funeral, constellation-petals large and small, stem and stamen, torn softly, eachsevered pink and yellow head where the missing bed is now,missing moon table and chairs replaced with so many flower-mouths,but see, there over the fireplace mantle is its invisible family portrait, allimpatiens over peony, the private parts of field lavender chained          around the ankles of the children no longer here.Bathtub filled with so many avoidable sunflowers, long names in herb rows,thousand mouse corsage, dust lintel and moldings, greening their perfume,still wet in prayer along the stained corridor, snail trails and seed nails          driven away from ground, wearing early widow's weeds—what will happen to you when you sleep in the house, now          Anemone-naked, its roof gone?