Fuck that god damn Tulip. Flamboyant colorful whore that it is. So fragile, curvy, and petite. Screw Tulips and their many faces of beauty. I'll trust in my heartiness. Bitter as it is.
There was a time when people believed in my golden radiance. When my sunshine locks, gave a sense of home to those that have traveled so far. Still, today, for as long as I can remember, children of all persuasions greedily smile at me. Rub their snotty hot noses in the cluster of my gold dust pollen, like flightless huge lumbering bumblebees. As usual, they will pluck me from the earth to wear as crowns. I anoint immature queens. Give them the glow of mature beauty and regal riches. Soon I will become the baby though, in a morbid sort of game.
"Mama had a baby and its head popped off!"
Zing. There goes my head. Before I've had a chance to sprout my own babies and cast them to the wind. I'm sure their parents have put them up to it. Ruthless bastards. Still, there is a bit of love and fascination in this twisted theater. If I've managed to weather the mower and countless decapitations, I'll prepare my seedlings for flight, and those meddling primates, will make wishes with my children.
Oh. The secrets I could tell you! The whimsical fantasies that my own seed borne upon the wind and sprouted from. There are the girl's wishes for kisses and a princess castle. The little boy's simple wish for kisses. Not much more it seems. He'll forget soon enough. There is the woman who always talks to herself. Her hot breath casts hopes towards escaping and flying into the sky, to be planted anew, fresh and cheery.
Silly woman doesn't know the first thing about being a dandelion. To be simple, happy, and austerely pretty, while all the while being torn between love and hate is a cruel punishment. She'll put my yellow petals in her hair, jealous as all hell, forgetting herself. Ignorance is bliss I suppose. There is the lazy man, fancying himself a poet, or a writer, they are all the same. He'll blow slow, heart wrenchingly plucking each seed to be picked up by the breeze. He is lost in his own dream and creation, trying to paint a picture to write crappy lines of poetry or shallow prose with. He loves the sound of his own voice and words - not mine. Narcissism is his game. Their is a certain beauty in it.
But, really, I've never been loved for my looks. I've always been a means to an end. A tool of sorts. I don't complain much, it's made me a world wide traveler. You'll find me everywhere, smiling at you. History has had a fairly wicked way with me though. All at once, I am a healer. Another, a delectable food. Yet another, a poor substitute for the high strung coffee bean. Still further, a weed! Me! A god forsaken weed. And they wonder why their wishes never come true. Confounding. Ungrateful. Paradoxical, species they are.
Today, children still playfully abuse me and the ignorant banish me, while those that think of me at all kindly, eventually fry me up, bake me, or toss me in a salad to nibble on young luscious bodies of my leafs.
It was those Puritans (people so up tight the English kicked them out - that's a Robin Williams quote) that brought me here – to America.
[To be continued – I think]
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