Lisa Yuskavage God of Hippies, 2014 Pastel over unique inkjet ground on rag paper |
AGAIN FINDING FINGERS
my terror is that I rides the black horse
THAT RHYMEs with eating eggs AND LEGs
iron destinies intestines disguised as blessings be
so where am I is always relevant in the dark
the scented congresses of geese shat field ferns
and other fruiting bodies were delicious
when weather didn't gobble oddly
wobbly bobbed cosine to trough
all of us bundled up slopped shopped
eventually sad cuisine I was
until then I said demanded and ended up
bargaining for you to sew my skinand wade my bones
I ask you to cut me stained
rounding up the nearest decimal place
scatter the broken pieces
of what once was joy
every ounce pounce
bounce pun fabric and listening
of I wasn't or won't be but try
to die the self in a weave Egyptian cotton
say I was from the mountains
from remembering
the rain and the garlic
smell of coal ovens the hard cheeses
hanging waxed and roped
by the window AND
home is where the hearth IS
OR is that that hat you
thought you found yourself in
dancing for Love again
EJR ©
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