What are we trying to do
with the word picnic?
Take a regular lunch,
and paint it red.
Red as the veins
of ketchup,
that snake the backs
of spineless dogs.
Red as the tulips
that propagate
themselves,
when gardeners forget
to put out their bulbs
… until after Christmas.
What is a date
without Blood of Flowers?
A bottle of Rosé
to keep the reality at bay,
that we are showing
our private hearts
in public parts;
trying to figure
each other out
of a wicker basket,
and eat.
Where are the wild things?
Ants, to make us dance,
in our pants,
A bear to make us
piss them.
Without the hokey pokey,
What is a picnic all about?