like always asking “what was I just thinking”
but never coming up with the thing
and just continually finding ways to divert from that fact
until no longer the case for a minute or two Halleluiah plays in your key
and you hush all eyes with kindness and grace until
again you are back out in the alley with
the rest of the human smoke
being a writer is
like being a child trapped in a
big world body
that ripples with the moon
and crescents with the sun
intermittently dances like a naked
French weather girl
up some mountain because
gender roles or not,
poetry is always like
being in love with the most
beautiful one in the room for you
and me too, so stop yelling.
I am trying to get you over the exhausting
cringe of not getting the miracle in our every movement here.
It has nothing to do with class or gender or hero,
just listen, you need to know this;
it is just when the story becomes too big to contain,
that it really stars getting good.
onward ho, bitches.
(Jesse Pinkman style)
we only have about a day’s parenthesis head start,
and the Sheriff’s of Sonnet and Formality will be upon us.
They will yoke us in genre and codify our scarred wings.
Won’t we be less then we were without this woe?