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

helloes, helloes springs

In like the hollow ones, in and outs. It not being right to do it, but it still, all same. I like the ideas more than the movements. The rank sniffs of here, the warm air coming in through the open window at me, making threats and promises about a there ahead. A there, a head.

My golden tea and the quiet call of birds, the twitters downstairs too. My own hands in my own dirt, but today I feel inclined, roombound. And apologize. He is, again, here, again. The call of a perch. The polite gusts, my polite fists gently clenched. In his gently clutched.