Yesterday in Wales, a Red Sox sweatshirt and a sweaty Schlitz T-shirt. Both in smoky pubs with heads twisted for chatter, hair caught in stung lips.
> > > > > God must have braces > since our smiling shines > through all things metallic- > the sparkle of fish sides, > reflections of mirrors, > sunlight jumping off of still water, > discarded cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon > near the birds and muted city, > invisible behind the trees. > > I took off my shoes today. > My skin is bright white; > save some forest of hairs > black on pink and blue > standing on cool green > clover and dandelions. > > If in all of this there was > supposed to be some free fall- > if my identity was intended > to connect to my feet, > if only to send it reeling, > it failed: I look at my feet > as if they are strangers. > They are- my shoes, > constant presence, suffocating > the wary calluses of my soles, > these shoes- (green leather) > more familiar than my own toenails. > I may as well have hooves. > > Where does my brain connect > to my own body? I have this deep > friendship with my eyes, and mouth > as if my face was my whole body > but some days, my legs- when I am > least ashamed of my configuration, > I can put my hands on my legs > and feel the muscles used to walk, > but even legs are distant cousins; > always around and always supportive > but never really connected. > > Even my hands seem useless. > They type- and the rest of what I do > has nothing to do with them, > pretending to have evolved past > any need for thumbs. They test water > but they do not savor it; I feel like > I am making poor use of all these > extremities, blocking off some list > of sensation, whereas I am blessed > with every inch of skin capable > of any number of possibilities. > > Saddest still: My hair is always sleeping. > Rise and Stand! Goosebumps are > the measuring stick for the fulfillment > of your sensual potential; and me, > nothing- dead and tired, sleeping hairs > on soft pink white pillows of dying cells. > > My feet, I deny them: Do not > jump in puddles; legs, do not run, > hands, ignore the beach sand, > stay away from the cat, keep > to your selves and my pockets. > I have no idea what to do > with this thing between my legs, > either; which may explain > why I am a feminist. > > But all this is adding up. My > whole mind stuck at the top of > all this flesh, nowhere else > to be found, and I am floating > far above the ground with no idea > of how, or why. My mind lives > in an imaginary body- projecting > actions and movements which > will never take place; dreaming > of locations my feet could take me > or ideas my hands could build; > while they sit still and rot, > like all bodies are rotting. > > All this metal clanging chorus > for God, and I am lost to the glow > of pale skin under the sun, > of my hand outside the car window > gliding up and down like birds. > My feet are not laughing > enough to turn silver. It's time > to start moving, and quickly, > so fast I outrun my thinking > of where I would go or what > I am leaving- to just run, > like a zebra runs, like a dog runs > in the sunlit days of summer > in circles, in circles, leaping! > Like so many wind up toys > aluminum spirits rising > backflipping, crash landers! > God is afoot! God is a foot! > And in me, in me, in me- > the spirit of the ages, > the confirmation of the glory > of being in what this whole shit > is, whatever it is, let it come > and get me out of this mind. > > > -e. _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [EMAIL PROTECTED] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
