When a feeling
Erupts without invitation,
And comes without
Thorough disclosure,
I am often
Left starved
By curiosity.
Coming upon
A portion of a thought
Such as this
Brings about
An involuntary reflex
As if
I had just
Touched
The cold of a popsicle stick
To my tongue.
My body pulls away from the thought,
But my mind
My mind,
It protests
And makes me face
Uncertainty and Discomfort
Eternally.
Whereas reason slips
down the strait of man’s waist,
on a woman
it comes to rest
in protrusions of soft anxiety.
Boundless intuition
saddles the curves
of the female body.
The curvature of hips and chest
are best used for sound logic;
they’re handles
of order in the world
and guards
to the central organ
of the Earth.
Men think without this roundness.
Their thoughts too often catch on the bone
of individual desire.
Women have no such hardness.
From slender sloping necks
to the roundness in heels and toes
ideas slide
without snagging.
Women are impregnated
with foresight.
It pulses through the body
keeping a woman’s past
streaming not far behind her in billowing locks.
She bears a constant reminder
that the future grows
from her mind.
Hang scripture from your mind.
Hear
the Said
the Taught
the Written
Believe
Your words
Hang up forethought and wander.
Somewhere,
the where of some forest
into which
I have yet
to enter,
trees slowly burn
to charcoal.
Black
smudges the interior
of clouds.
The results of which
are peaks of stormy gray.
I am distant from these mountains,
but my lungs-
accustomed to air
heavy only with humidity-
strain.
The haze over the sun
builds thick
like bricks;
no one has shelter.
It’s later now,
and from the Southerly winds,
the smell of pine and dogwood
cloak the night.
It’s cloudless
and starless-
a phenomenon
not at all
an indicator of rain boots and umbrellas.
Tomorrow,
flurries of flip-flops
will flick up
a trillion descendants
of one instantaneous spark.
Loud children
will disrupt
the ashen coating,
but so too
shall gravity
dismantle their medieval castles
and uncanvased sketches
that decorate
the sidewalk.
Cumbersome,
each party is
to the other.
Fascination and amusement
trail alongside
all disaster.
What are these roots
which stretch metallically
beneath the concrete ground
sucking up
as much as is
eventually
forced down?
The bumps that
uneven the ground
beneath the step
of Man
are the triumphs
and the failures
of underground desires
springing forth to bear fruit.
Fruit of which
does not grow
to be pesticized
and picked by man
for his consumption.
Rather,
They are beings
that only wish to be looked upon
for inspiration
which try so earnestly
to grow upwards
through the pavement.
