Dandelions

I greatly hated the taste of ginger. What is this crap? I felt the slap, shaking every vertebrae. That little mouth," cried Mama Holle. Now I knew exactly what blood and ginger tasted like. The radio was screeching. I began to thin out where I was. Was it all shadows? I was still under the table and the rain was pouring down. At least the smell of wet earth distracted me from the stench.
I distinctly remember the dimensions of the kitchen. The stand of bottles and the undaunted stranger, removing the colors on the wall. The windows opened and dandelion fragments flew.
The cat was a warm ball of fur. I managed to get him to open his eyes a little. He sank back into his cat dream, as he showered me with hair. I remembered the old man's worsted hairs. He should finish agonizing in the basement.
Despite the rain, footsteps could be heard. The night was a maze of lightning and distant music. What happened to the blue? I dreamed of dragons and wolves. I found flowers in my hair. Blue lilies. I remember in the uncertain darkness I could read. Imagining the things I could do when I grew up. In that imperfect (dreamed) world there were none of you.

The lady and the junkie.
Did you hear the rain? I invite everyone to the shelter of these walls of death. Mama Holle, you are a wandering specter. What can you do as a specter? I can paint. I can even wipe the tears off your face. It's just letters and strokes. In the vastness, we are nothing of what you long for. My palette has three colors. But they are so faithful that they churn your flesh. I create tones. I build this chaos. I set boundaries and rules. Do the thoughts of these wretches matter?
Soon it will be winter. We need firewood. Notebooks of leaves that break. Poetry. I need to take my mind off the knives. In the kitchen drawer I have my other knives. I can get out from under the table and stick my hands into anyone who comes through that door.
I can go down to the basement. See your blackened face. Almost gray. Veins about to collapse. I leave you enough water so you don't die. Food is something you're not entitled to. Become that monstrous insect you are.
Old Midas. He walks by the river. He seems to fish for bottles. He watches them slowly and returns them to the water. He repeats slowly. Ice queen, is that you? We will not starve. She walks showing only one shoe. Her eyes are blue. The rain barely brushes her skin. Ebony and gold.
Do you think a drug addict could have unique poetics? Another fish. Another fish. He's got something on his belly, crystals, a note.