June 3, 2012

poem 174 of a poem a day for 2012

the tribal vagina of Mr Willis

face painting the space
between my inhale of desire
and the exhale of my virtue
I get under every portico
every rough hewn timber lean
depletion is an end game
for a hand-cupped certainty
though passing the buck is king
it is only a wearing of the horns
without the responsibility
for my animal nature
I am mankind on a leash
wading thunder swells
for keys in the lightning
I am a neuromantic romance
with a fa├žade of flesh
television gnaws at me 
for swimming in the alpha waves
my soul’s weather makes
my enslavement is only selected
from what I am willing
to be fitted with
in order to keep spilling
my back to Heaven in the reeds
as mud carpets collect every time
I pretend not to know
that wings aren’t needed to fly
rain on the aluminum screen frame
patters out some arcane
morse-coded chaos
and all the messages
are in a pour
my belly full of bell jars
weighted with being
what humanity spawns


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