strange poem & picture of radishes

niether sow nor reap nor plenty

the summer season is a pretty ring time.
there are bugs on the wind and petals on the ground.
there is a rushing brook ruched against the rocks.
great strapping lads are putting bricks in walks,
and across the way the parlormaids giggle to see their dreamy muscles work.

you may say that my reality's stronger than that one above
which could be featured in any oily clothy medium:
girls in an ecstasy of swinging on a canvas
or something to do with a cow as the girls in clogs milk and flirt on toile.
there are babies with yards and yards of filmy fabrics and a guy leaning on a gate.

and because i'm underground i symbolize something deeper, right,
the ecstasy of dark and wordless things. "things," right, not, like,
rocks or stones or possibly worms or dead voles, or slimy ass cabbage
that's fallen fallow in a field and gotten turned under, because that's just not
my domain: it's not wordless, silent, the romance of the rich and unforgiving dark.

dang nabbit, people i want something more: a featured role on your walls
and chairbacks. i want to take some pages in your magazines over. i want to leaf,
sprout, and talk about something, anything really--qvc or coinmaster, the funky
smell comin' off charon, that priceless look on sisyphus' face every time he loses the rock,
dating, annie hall... where i'm putting my line breaks, even. check
this one out, for instance.
yeah. i break where i please. and i'll do it

again. it's just i don't get why i always have to be the wordless center,
undepicted, undepictable, un...well, chose your word, slap an "un" on it,
and you've described the wordless center of the word you just used, no?
it's that thing like in derrida (i've heard this by vague description) where the thing
is separated into two but one gets more than the other like man vs. woman or light vs. dark,
the "un"-word vs. the word itself and down here it's frankly the "un" that gets more
play. and i want a few words of my own because all the shades do is wander the asphodel like they were still alive--i'm tired of being so centered all the time, guys, i want to diffuse, take some of the pressure off...vicks vapo-rub me in language. crust me up like a pork chop. i wanna talk!

before persephone's return
and the long dense winter
like a jewel
held in the hand
until warmed through.