I am all flowers. It’s true. This isn’t controversial, it’s simply my reality. Every flower you have ever looked into – or that has looked into you, as floral characters are wont to do – has had my face as one of their many portals. This isn’t merely romantic or fiction or a fairy tale or a course of creative writing, it’s plain fact. If you don’t believe me — every pregnant gospel will attract detractors — go sit in the petals and stamens of any flower and watch the psychic eye of the bee as she comes at midday to perform.
a bumblebee in the Santa Monica Mountains
Watch the psychic tongue of the butterfly as he knows exactly which pool of nectar to drink at which hour and for how long. Be patient as you become lost in this giant tornado of pollen. Be completely transfixed by the Blinding Light of Being— yes, that’s me. I have seen you there, also. The bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh is the pure awareness of all flowers. My belly blossoms without end. This is my fate, but also my choice. I may lose followers or close friends for saying this, but as the poet laughed, what use it is for a man to gain the whole world but lose his soul?
CAN’T. STOP. LOOKING. (thistle in Los Angeles)


I create love together with flowers, in the most prickly scent and sense you could possibly imagine and we sculpt pollen and nectar together in their bed called soil and rock and all our friends come visit us every day to eat and drink our gifts, us. I am also the history and future of all flowers with perfect clairvoyance. My mother’s laughter causes me to bloom, or so thought the poet. I pucker my lips as the butterfly comes to kiss me and drink from the flood of my story. Sweet, august, maddening, buoyant, the route her tongue traces has no limit. She drinks and flutters and gulps; she asks for more of me; I give without question. Then, she sleeps on me for several hours as her consciousness comes into my soul and she talks about her father and daughter. I weep uncontrollably out of sheer joy as we set the table for dinner. I see Jesus at the tips of my fingers and the butterfly’s eyes are the holiest blue, as the alpine lake at dawn. The lullaby commences.

behr’s metalmark on wild mustard in Burbank, California
“Wake up” she says, “i need you to carry my children. they need to know who you are”. My eyes are barely open, yet my womb feels the weight of her many sons’ dreams. Her eyes morph from purple to yellow to silver. “i trust you because i was pregnant with you too thousands of years ago, so you know the needs and nature of my womb.”

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