my hair is standing up like jarmusch. idle know if it's the wind. the wind goes in every direction. my hair goes up. makes lulu pullulous. i don't want to go home because the wind. the wind pulls my hair. my head is in the doldrums inside the wind. the wind portends. it's not just wind. it's not our wind, as the idiot is not our president, and the judge god forbid, is not our judge. the prevailing wind, it pulls my thoughts up up and away. my plants are there in the place of neglect. my place. it's different to plants when you are there. you can neglect them then, they still grow somewhat in your company. funny thing, two of my plants blossomed in neglect when i was away, then died. it was as if they tried one last appeal, hoping someone would see their signal in the window and rescue them from my absent lonely neglect. and one, so poignantly kept sending out baby plants, as mothers do in drought, hoping the next generation will fair better, will experience a good life with climate justice and clean water in the right measure. oh, my abandoned plants, my borrowed potted children, i will give you water on the morrow.