Hidden microscopic bugs eating holes in all the leaves. I hope they don't invade my hugs and give me itchy tickly sleeves.
Does the plant mind, do you think, that it's riddled full of dots? Or does it yearn for insect friends and know the bugs must love it lots?
Metal cat, metal cat, what the heck you staring at perched high up the 'lectric pole in a fetching turquoise stole?
Trees behind you show right through your body made of curlicues. I wish you looked down at the street I like your face more than your feet.
Near South and Broad there is a wall of Mural Arts causation. A lion's face, a drill, a clock, a scroll of divination.
The I Ching runs behind a wheel and passersby can reach and spin to let the future unconceal the best way for them to begin.
We stop, we read, we make our bets about which guidance we'll each get. I spin it thrice, and, at the mark, I hit the night, the hat, the dark.
Come learn about economics, gender norms, and microphonics, books, zines, wires, and anarchy.
Not questionable, Iffy.
Call whomever, share the glee, their payphone says, laconically, projecting generosity:
"Donations only. All calls free."
Sun-sprinkled scintillant speckles strewn astride a shining grin. Dazzling dancing diaphanous freckles dot your delicate dappled skin. Laughing eyes behind dark glasses gaze at me uncertainly and curiously try to assess what it is that my eyes see.
I see the sunlight singing songs of praise. It shines signs on your face, "Good morning. Happy Birthday."
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