I need a stoner girlfriend too. I remember my last stoner girlfriend - oh, how I miss her. She hurled her stones in a perfect arc, while I'd stand looking on admiringly, in awe that I'd ever met such a wonderful stoner. I'd watch as the rock made its connection with a terrifying crack and a shower of red blood. In her accuracy, my stoner girl was humane. She would put them out of their misery with one well-aimed throw.

Throwing stones just isn't as much fun by myself. The flecks of saliva that fly from the mouths of strange stoners are somehow never as sweet as the silvery beads glistening in the corners of your very own stoner girl's lips. The press of the crowds were an excuse to press myself up against her. I remember how she would smile and say, "hand me another rock, it's party time."

autumn came in a whisper across a
different conclusion, Autumn was
as a bird through a windowpane.
Smaller words fled
whitespaces in a breath; below
her wing and too many syllables, then
I feared there was nothing.

into a lung I exhale
polygons and into the skin I
had lines that are coloring books, who
fill the air with an understated
majesty.
Autumn makes herself
known through a trade of knowledge, a
stylus between my fingers carries
nothing. I held a parachute of
doves, painted red and gold
in the onset of fall, but they
dispersed into the trees and
painted Autumn in a false warmth. She
climbed over the fence and shouted at
me from the backyard while in leisure
my elbows rested on the windowsill.
The frost climbs up the pane and obscures
her behind a column, she comes
with a sharp breath and inhales the birds
who are the merchants of winter.