Life has loveliness to sell the poet said and I wonder if the applicable tenderness of existence is not in fact the wishful thinking of a sad and lonely optimist, if time and essence and excess and torrid love affairs with strange men is not enough to quench our finessed anger, our salivating repugnance. the birds call to each other and that is lovely but I also know my neighbor beats the tree with a large stick to scare the Conures away.
 
Life has loveliness to sell the poet said under the moonbeams where your lips and my shoulder meet and I look at you like a mermaid come to life and you look at me as if my skin was made of gold and honey.
 
Life has loveliness to sell the poet said it has loud and quiet spaces small enough for us to fit into to suffer together with outstretched arms and enough tears to fill 10 oceans, a sea of human tears what a lovely image that is but then the steamboat, the jet-ski, the oil tankers the ever widening gryre of profit margins outweigh saffron by the pound saffron more expensive than gold saffron and all her blood pink countries.
 
Life has loveliness to sell despite the hacksaws and lawnmowers, despite the telephone lines and utility boxes, despite drills and dump trucks and landfills and skyscrapers. Despite all that impressive industry, life. LIFE. Has an infinite inventory of lovely.
 
Life has loveliness to sell my mother told me to smell the roses in front of my house to spread their petals around my house to talk to them each one separate in its lovely color, my blushing brides, my yellow wallpapers, my red sonias and lavender lips, all my flowers sell themselves to me while hiding tiny switchblades up and down their green sleeves.
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