working draft... a pocket plato

A Pocket Plato

Flowers are just flowers,
except the one in my head.
It has lines and shadings
that are pure defiance.

A tree is a tree, a pencil,
a pencil, and the stress ball
is stress ball.

                    If I lived
in a cave, I would never
be tied to a chair, thinking

the commerce into The Republic
(paper or plastic?), one nation,
underground, tattooed and pierced
against the shift of planets.

Our music is loud. Our food,
a barrage of spice for days.

Colors here, a succubus
for the nomadic eye,
declare allegiance
to the moon’s sticky seasons –
sunken in the West.