rag weed season

the more i talk the less i know
about language. i cut out my tongue 
& make a delicious stew. well i guess
i am just deciding it is delicious
because i can't taste anything anymore.
i ask the butcher for blood
& he asks, "how much?" in the yard
the rag weeds are past the point 
of no return. taller than me they 
start talking about god. gold breath
in the dusk light. i tell them
i have no interest in the subject. 
right now i am concerned about
butter & bagels. i am concerned
about grapes. about the flat tire that
keeps coming for me on the purple highway.
my phone tells me someone is a car crash.
i make a delicious stew from my phone
which is much less delicious than
the one from my tongue. we will 
have to make do with what we have. 
i call a service meant to help people
like me but the operator is confused
who i am. i hang up, deciding it is easier
to just walk to the moon & gather 
a few handfuls. i tried to pull the ragweed. 
most of them came easy. it was like
they wanted to let their legs go.
the government is installing cameras.
they try to make a treaty with the rag weed.
the rag weed says, "this is my body. this is
where i drink." the government laughs.
that had never stopped them before. they say,
"you can keep your eyes if we can
live inside them." the rag weed complies. 
i do not manage to uproot them all.
they gaze with a half-sight. i tell them a story
about the sky. a cloud where on 
the other side we are all soft & tongueless. 
carve a new language. one where 
our eyes are our own. we drink until 
we are river & then the rivers are us.