We’re all dirt.

New Yorkers, that’s real New Yorkers. Yonkers doesn’t count. Staten Island doesn’t count. Suffolk County doesn’t count. Anyone who can smell cow manure definitely doesn’t count. Most of Nassau is alright.

[HA! Jersey.]

New Yorkers know they are dirt, but are desperately believing they don’t stink. But at least they treat all the earth the same. Humans are made of dirt. Dirt doesn’t dream of oak trees, or corn stalks, or gravestones above wooden boxes of memories and carbon that we pump full of formaldehyde because we fake ourselves into thinking we get to choose when death takes hold.

Just cuz you have a halo doesn’t mean you’re better than any of us.

Doesn’t stop us from tilling the hardpacked, lifeless ground, trying to coax something beautiful from the mundane; toiling irrigation ditches, waiting for rain fall. In attempts to fertilize our lands, we give in to our own bullshit. We devote ourselves to others bullshit; hoping that might make us grow. But we’re all just rolling in it, and I still can’t talk my way into anyone’s garden, much less make sacrifices to fertile gods or rain dances or sprouting harvests.

I’m only dust and whispers.

I’d rather dig a massive grave, fill it with shit, and swim a couple laps.

Because at least I’m swimming in my own shit.

Then again.

The walls of the porta-john are breathing.

And I’m trying to not blow my high

Or touch that mountain, impressively peaking over the seat.

Peaking over the horizon.

Peering into the bowls of the deadcells and waste that we leeched to keep this body moving. All waste

Maybe something here is worth blooming.

In this dirty concrete jungle.

Planting seeds in the sidewalk cracks

Dandelions are weeds to you

But they’re wishes for me

Sprouting from the earth.