December 14, 2016

so I write and write, roll around in my own shit and fight myself just for Love and Joy don't you want peace motherfuckers

Lisa Yuskavage
God of Hippies, 2014
Pastel over unique inkjet ground on rag paper

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


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