I love the smell
of leftover basil
on my hands
after I have tended
the garden
on a Monday noon,
just before the week
eats me.
I will put
the pruned basil
into tea
with chamomile
also from my garden
in the backyard
of my silly heart.
I will drink slow
tonight
the visions
of future Heaven,
from where I stand
in past Hell,
only smiling
warm yet weary.
I am a proud coward,
hiding behind
poems and puns,
invisible pistols
and a penchant
for cunnilingus.
I am hopeless,
romantic in
and of itself,
long may I roam
towards the mirage
horizon, trying
to find youth
of youth
with my sadness
as tool,
like hammer,
smashing
things
in my way.