The veil of darkness doesn't kill my day, the murdered sunlight or toxic poison people speak, I like frozen ponds and the elegant grace of a swan among ducks and lethargic turtles, places I do not belong, faces like poems and tracing silent names in the clay.
I am unreasoning when it comes to what I like, I'm not like you, I'll never be like you, I can't, I wasn't created that way, I think explosions and slime mold are beautiful, colors and texture, a crudely removed heart dropped horribly into a cold, metal bucket.
I like dust, sawdust, orange dust on the moon, red dust, the amber and golden dust out west, the blue dust on the Baltic waves, the sad green dust of a forest-scape, the fine drizzle in a spiderweb, I hate yellowjackets with a passion, but I admire their tiny, striped and bloated little bodies of evil, bitter yellow and inky onyx, they've stung me so many times, even in the face and how I've killed so many that lay dead in ghastly clumps of wings and stingers, half-torn torsos and their falsely innocent black eyes at my feet.