That is my solitary blade of wheat. Two blades actually, but who's counting? Not me. Not you. No more mentions of porn from here on out. Oh no, only mentions of the garden, which, thank friggin heaven, is now happily and readily growing, not drowning as it had been doing for the last ten days. Rain is awesome and rain sucks. Isn't this what Sophocles said about it? so long ago upon the Aegean? Isn't this what Mario Lopez also said about it?
Those are my irises. My irises? As if I own them? As if all the people who pass by don't own them too? And in a sense, don't they? They own them with their retinas. As James Tate said in Smart and Final Iris, Pentagon code for end of world is rural paradise, and doesn't this look like a mini rural paradise? I certainly think it does. And don't I own the computer through which I touch the inside of your brain?
The toadstool is mine, and when I sit upon it I turn into a toad. A toad that wears Chuck Taylor's.