Here is where the green lady grows. This 20th of April, the sacred day for the green nation and its mass. If only I could give you the buckets of green from which you all could glean the antidote for boredom and hormones of when I was a teen or of when I was a man ready for the machines.
Green teen and greener leaves and red hairs, when still the sleeves of my shirts remained unpressed, my head damp from bonghits for breakfast, brunch, lunch, nap, dinner, midnight snack and sleep.
Now my shirts are pressed with memory, a sporadic mind to transfuse thoughts, mend the decay of days and weeks spent at work for anything green in front of machines.
Easy to wake and easy to bed, green for the moments between, when I see of myself a green man green for the weed that can grow in gardens.
Frank Sauce
- By Jeffrey Bershaw
- from Portland, OR
- I'll try to write as little as possible. I'm a little man with high hopes, pipe dreams and little machines inside that keep me writing.
- More About Frank Sauce
- Painting by Anna Todaro
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