fight this flower generation

i like flowers

i write about them a lot

though not as much as i read about them

the crimson cyclamen, carlos williams—that cd be my favorite poem

of all time

i think because in this city

flowers are most like people

take the cat’s tail outside my window

the head is swaying a little in the hot air from the air conditioner’s exhaust fan

if that head was a real, human, head

it wouldve felt like exploding

but it doesnt it just sways a little

like saying yes repeatedly

to whatever life has to offer

good or bad

heat or more heat

love or one day in a hotel room somewhere in cikini

ok, at the marcopolo

i gave a rose to a girl

single stem

petals still closed so she could take it home and put it in a vase

quarter filled with salted water

a few minutes after she left

a text message alert on my mobile:

‘sayang, i forgot the rose, dont be angry, ya’

she was lying

she was married

it wouldve been hard work explaining the rose to the husband

i didnt care

shed left the rose in the rubbish bin

i picked it up

picked the tiny petals off one by one

scattered them like little red parachutes on the perfect white sheet

napoleon’s army in velvety red coats

sleeping in unforgiving cossack snow

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