all natural

 whitman thought not to befell 
in the perfumes of life, the smells
that are beautiful but not honest,
the artificial he so detests.

but he’s dead and im not.

so i’ll put chemicals in my hair 
until the color is stripped
and plaster paint all over it. 
ill wear my jeans, ill own two pairs

ill pile stevia into my coffee
and wrap my sandwich in plastic
rewatch shows on my giant tv
and glue glitter to my eyelids.

my hair’s not brown anymore
and leaves of grass is a metaphor.