journal of white wildflowers

Bastard Toadflax (Comandra umbellataa)

I guess it is good to end things because of the existence of the end. It is very clear. It has a good sure voice. The point of saying so is sort of an ending. It is sewn over. It hurts to put pressure on it and it moves. It becomes among things. It seizes me up to go to California and then it makes for the ocean. I don't like it's come hither quality, nor are the portions serviceable. Blackened and booked. Sepal.

Pineneedle Milkweed (Asclepias linaria)

I am a nice girl not entangled in the strangulation. You know. I am nice and my life it not. Tho I don't think of it until later, it is true. I am a girl that is nice depending on where you are when you are looking and where I am. I do not feel nice 50 percent of the time b/c I am doing things 50 percent of the time that I am unsure of. Being nice doesn't have to do with doing things one's unsure of.

I don't understand the soaptree yucca, "Shepherd's Purse"
the breaking up of beautiful things in thimbleweed bushes
and amaranth, the weed and rock, the pots of catclaw
mimosas and flaggy soapberries.

I don't understand how to "carry on" with the meat smell of desert tobacco blooms. To be walking along like that. And to continue.

I don't know what it means to be true, what it feels like, or what effect the true has on the webbing out of days, the time for travel and savings, prints, markings, mules.

I don't admire anyone at the moment.

I understand what it's like to feel good and I understand that I'm not with or for anyone. I'm not an accomplice or bodyguard. I'm not lording it over anyone. I'm not in on the nights, nor do I know what to do when I show up. I'm not drunk. I'm not smoking two cigarettes like when I was dreaming. I'm not in on someone else's dream, I'm not included or hinted at. I'm not the recipient of forgiveness. I'm not even losing David. As much as the resemblance is there, as much as I know about that. I'm not ready to sacrifice, still, after all this time. David, you can't come. You aren't invited to New York City. I am not "you" to you and you are not "him" to me. I have no idea what this has to do with belonging.

Lesquerella purpurea Rose Bladderpod

I release it and I stop talking about things. I stop talking toward the formulation. I stop talking and look. I release the sadnesses for what it is that is good, if what is good is cloaked in sadness. I release the knots on me. I release the things that I made that were made poorly. I release feelings of guilt that are tied to my face and my mouth. The black spots on my face and around my lips. The blisters on my shoulders and veins on my legs. The curve under my chest that is like the bottom of a boat. I release the easing of the violence that is done. I open the question and release it because it is light. It is painful because it is nothing and it does not belong. I release it because it is the same thing as everything, it is it's own reflection, it is evocable and it is raining.