I’ll be in the meadow
picking flowers today,
but if you call me,
I’ll come right home.

A big bouquet
of purple and blue –
I’ll gather a bunch
and bring them back.

Call me home
if I am late picking
my scorpion grasses,
sad and sweet.

If night falls
and I’m not back,
have no worries;
I’ll be on the way.

I’ll be on my way
home with flowers –
my favorites.



If I could paint,
I would paint a
purple liver locked
behind rusty bars.

It is not a metaphor.
There are no metaphors.
There is only an organ
caged, bellowing fugues.



Ben is currently studying mathematics as a graduate student in Madison, Wisconsin. He loves cats, books, anti-depressants, and revolutionary political theories and practices which strive for nothing less than the total liberation of all beings.