“I
need to get out of here.”
Who
of me said that?
You
of me, standing in my blind spot,
dragging
me across a beam high above forever,
throwing
light and images that land
like
casseroles across the soulless flat floor of me
lying
there in small heaps.
These
images, they come full blown,
then
pass me by.
They
hit no one.
But
my consciousness is like this solid floor,
to
gather the heap,
to
remind me to catch my breath,
to
die in your arms,
all
of your arms that run out of your tears into arms,
eventually
up streaming me
to
save me against time’s down pooling attempt
at
drowning me.
Now
fighting for meaningful air
in
these current images coming my way.
Hear
me say these things to your most concerned face.
“I
am pregnant with destiny.
I
have balls and I wear a dress.
My
milk is coming to meet the need.”
I
am not at the core of this that is wagging me,
hanging
on to me.
I
am clutching with my senses,
riding
out the force that grips me
as
I am actually gripping it as myself.
Please
help me to find me rocks,
anything
solid to hit my head against,
something
in my face for me to bite.
My
voice is molting into murmurs.
There
is dust gathering in my lungs.
My
teeth feel like pebbles in a dry stream-bed.
My
personal anatomy is filled with enigmas
as
a shrine across the landsite of me.
I
am mementos to landmark my identity.
It
is like a twister has blown through,
up
out my spine, off the top of me
while
I am still looking for my spirit
as
undisturbed jewels,
using
these panning tasks of recognition,
leaving
no scent unchecked,
across
familiarity’s delicate wash.
Yes,
my d.n.a. is still swarming
like
a nest of disturbed fire ants,
all
wondering if their queen lives
while
I am fighting off my sense of separation,
still
contending with my best and my worst
as
a human posse within me is running down
the
meaning of life right in my face.
With
fists hurting me in that search,
I
am so fast back out of the top of my head again,
looking
down at my mind, like a whipped mule,
empty-staring
at the scars of thoughts,
wearing
the stretch marks
from
under judgment’s load.
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