Well I have this bad habit of never forgetting
and never remembering how to understand to understand.
And I have this bad habit of wringing my head inside out when
I feel as though all has just settled under a soaking sun.
And I have this way of not finding my way
until the last raindrop falls,
just sparing the cactus flower that I caught with both hands open
Funny, I could have found the water inside all along.
And I have this leech on the back of my neck calling me home
trying to suck out the "Bad. New. Blood."
Bad. New. Blood.
Trying to Break. Bare. Bonds.
I say, "SAVE YOUR BREATH"
for deeper waters.
The suction of this falling feather
seems to pull with the thousands of under-bellies
of the whales, inhaling me until I've dried out
Fallen off.
But who, out there, knows to where I will fall?
Will I disintegrate? Be compensated? Crumbled? Grated?
How could I live unless someone pushes me through this
Big. Black. Burrow?
Must I push myself, through these gardens of hell?
And will you, out there, come find the unwinded?
And once, if, I spout out, will I fly?
Or explode into a raging fit of fires,
unbeknownst to the gathering people in the world who
populate, congregate, coagulate
into steaming piles of "Not. There."?
And all I can think of is myself,
And I have this bad habit of worrying about the words
and concerns and meanings that don't matter.
Will I see, can I hear, do I know,
and I try, which drives me to madness,
and perhaps an unwillingness to just. do?
And I have this bad habit of
running my mind to a blown fuse in a spell of questions
that do nothing to reveal any formed path.
Ah, but it is form that I do not want
It is still reverie to me, and I
have you to thank.
The unidentified force behind a volcanic
laugh
The young spark, leading me toward my unwoven track.
I will weave through these weeds
So long as I may just
touch
and be touched
as I have so many times today
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