are not vine for me,

they wither

like commie raisins

in revolt;

my thumb

is not green,

it is a city

shade of soot

& a pinkie to boot.

i put plants

in the ground

like the undertaker

puts people;

if charles manson

were a garden gnome

i’d be his minion;

& now i’m contemplating

trying out peppers,

but i know it will be

a massacre in the end;

dear lord please

stop me.

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