waft

my dreams are coming true

my sweat hands are pouring it out

my sweat mouth is   pouting it out

I am becoming an onion

I am not red 

I'm not white I'm not green

I'm not a rosy little shallot

but I am rank

I am a fetor, organic earth bulb

little dirt baby

organ baby

juicy layers

I got this B6 vaping out of me

the vitamin C all cloud water around

but I haven't a stalk

or a shaft

or a connection to anything

just a globular squish 

solid-bod

cut into me

get me open

cry when I vapor you

when I steam on you

when I exhale
allium miasma

little mist

little onion burst

they don't make me cry at all, never

but I'm ready to sweet my juice on you, 

for your big old tears to drownout

sad 

little 

onion

cynic

o cry out, a suns!

Los suns multiples. The arrogant whitewash and the shadow trying for harsh. But a soft trickle through a tree. Outside there, and across, though the cars go by so to see it I still a park, a lot, and many too. The greens of the lawn and all the things to take with, the scent, the steady rush hush purr of sizzle stove things like onion to like and garlic to push into oil, make a stir up a sense.

Oily branches dipped to sky, little arms little ripples little brown wove to a softer antiquated blue. of a powder blue, of a sky not to become paired to! Nothing be compare. just the two the boths and the forever seconds twined like of brown thick. The park sits still, the windows still, the cat on fence, still, and through one opened up to me. To us appear, to us, a pair. To a rightly paired pairadice. A little us stand captivated, the chop of hunger smell through to deeply make smiles forth.