John Chapman, Charlie Rapeseed, Father Colza (I was Born Charles Dane Flowers)
(April 25, 2018, 5:10 AM)
I have an affiliation with dead flowers
and in the notes app of my phone,
I found a note that says "Next."
But it makes sense, I guess. Because
without context it tells me that
I was ready to continue writing,
and ready to continue doing
what I've always done.
So next I write another document
into the Notes app. I write
And in it, i explain
I have an affiliation
with dead flowers.
And when I'm not writing
about dead flowers, I'm writing
about the dead, or would-be dead,
or will-be dead, or could-be dead,
or I-wish dead, but always
a casket is full and filled
to the very top
(devoid now of emptiness)
with flowers dead or living.
And this affection I have for flowers
is poetic in a way,
because I was born with the name
"Flowers" stapled from a girl unflowered by a man
twice her age.
A seed born of colza,
I was born in Arizona, Phoenix,
stolen from my mother to live
with a mother thrice her age.
And so Flowers’ name was changed,
but Godplans yet remained, and
the affiliation of Flowers led to Bloom.
In the house of blooming buds,
I found solace and place to keep;
I found brother, and sister, and lover,
and friend. I got parents who never
could stay to my end.
I Bloomed healthy, as healthy as
rock-infected Flowers could be.
And so Next I'll continue to speak
I always hated the color yellow,
I never knew my makers,
yet I love my maker, the one who
made me me.
He made sure I would Bloom
in a house without Flowers. I
never met Flowers, but Flowers
Yes, Colza birthed me.
But I despise the color yellow,
I hate the color rapeseed.
But as rapeseed I flourished,
and I fell for the Bloom. I wish for life
beside flowers, want just the word
Next. No context.
And in the Notes app I'll say,
that my father, the Deflowerer, the
Defiler, made me. He must've
loved yellow, the color
I hate. He must've loved
yellow, the color of his seed. I hate
the Colza Flower, but he
put his dick in it.
And now that I'm here, I've Bloomed,
I breathe no rock-air.
Rapeseed survived, as Colza,
with life. I take breath with no rock,
no crystal, no problems, I guess.
Yet I hold an affiliation for crystals
Unlike Flowers bloomed before me,
I step without rock. Away from
burdens of spreading this seed.
I hold an affiliation for flowers, I guess.
But I wish, most the time, to
see them descend. Like the rose
upon my wall, or
the withered flower that fell
after I stared at the corpse
of my mother unwell - like the petal
that I placed, upon her dead skin,
I find solace in the thoughts
of the I-wish dead. The Flowers
and the bees
say "Son you are
Next." With context devoid,
and empty I'll say,
"I have this affiliation with Flowers (deceased), and hate."
And so my father's sins follow me.