The Bouquet (8/3/2009)

Jean-Jacques Rousseau mentioning eighteenth century attire has me wondering of floral arrangements. "Her bouquet" what could her bouquet be? Something she wears, supporting her bosom, the flower of her body? She hands me her bouquet - offering me her flesh. A word; possession. It was enough for me not to grab, but rather to hold her by the stems and feel the petals brush against my skin. ("You were always weird that I never had to hold you by the edges like I do now") No expectations. The curves of her body, her energy, I could feel inside her. I felt inside. Yet surrounded her. We danced and laughed, and and pressed out mouths together, we met each other and met ourselves again. The blue lights are bright. We should be the masters of the lights of the world. We speak it and we are.

She offered her bouquet to me and I took only a garland of baby's-breath. 'Tis sweet to leave love wanting more. Take little now. Gain more as they grow. She grows basil and carrots, hyssop-mint and other plants on the fire-escape of her apartment in Brooklyn. Grows them in her garden. To taste those herbs! To hold in my mouth that passion of inspiration, to hold the initial moment she conceived the idea of growing plants then in my mouth now will be my most sought delight. The experience.

The bouquet unfurls from the cleavage of her shirt. The stems are her neck, strong muscular and stretched taut. Careening. The flowers her face, high cheeks, chin, fiery nectar lips and iris eyes of amber glow like sunlight. But I do not possess. For there is very little in life for anyone to. I see. I admire. I am aware of beauty in things, the valuable symbols they possess. Like flowers gathering in my mind, ones already grown and planted somewhere else; those I have conceived without sight. Perhaps she will see them tomorrow in the city street in a bed outside of a building. Perhaps she will see them tomorrow of the next day and think of me.