ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
POETRY
08-02-02023
A grind, right?!
Fuggin’ uphill dog-slog,
battle clad in birthday suits,
straight out the womb.
A thousand wounds before that one causality.
Here we go,
ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
And I’m supposed to feel like a holy animal,
hearing Camus say,
“𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚜𝚢𝚙𝚑𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢.”
Oh I’ll roll with the joke.
My hands can kiss stones,
like backs kiss lashes.
Like bats of lashes.
Like a butterfly kiss,
I remember with a sting.
A boulder pushed just shy of truth,
or past it.
‘Ahhh fuck truth.’
I say it, and truths fucks me royally.
Like a candy-coated viper.
Death risks for licks.
Truth?
No. Ya.
Oh Maaaybe.
Connection?
To you fine folks and your natures,
and what you eat,
and what eats you,
and where all that shit sleeps.
Connection!
As much as a good squeeze can tease,
and my inhale and
. . . my exhale.
It that carries me,
ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
As I watch time make every moment a kiss on the cheek.
Daring me to claim
ｎｏ ｃｈｏｉｃｅ.
And I’m supposed to feel a holy conviction
hearing Che say,
“𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎.”
What is unspun then, Che?What has love’s great feeling not shoved?
So, revolutionary, I kick covers.
I roll out,
ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
Asking, ‘Is living past lunch enough of a commitment to the cause?’
And find that it is!
How revolutionary I do become after lunch.
In-n-out, round-n-round
my 𝓜𝓪𝔂 𝓟𝓸𝓵𝓮 spine,
breaths spin like eternal spring.
A second by second ceremony
between I and ᗩᒪᒪ that is.
Loving—not without frustration—
the mystery of each other.
ᗩᒪᒪ tackles me, and here we go,
ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
Rolling down the knoll.
That type of wrestle that always ends in the grandest fuck.
“𝙾𝚑 𝚖𝚎! 𝙾𝚑 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎!”
Whitman says.
And I’m supposed to feel all holy-holy
when I hear it.
But I’m in a sassy mood.
I answer, ‘Oh, indeed!’
I grab ‘Oh’ like a hula hoop,
twisting till we fall over each other,
landing all lemniscates.
ᗩᔕᔕ ටᐯEᖇ ᗩᑎKᒪEᔕ.
Relieved to find that nothing, Nothing, ≋N≋O≋T≋H≋I≋N≋G≋,
is too heavy for the ground.
