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untitled free write NaPoMo #1

By April 2, 2013Blog


18 pt
18 pt


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this tongue will forsake me
and your eyes will
mispronounce a breath
in the reading
will forget the heart
of a voice
utterances of the ear
upon which 
it will  all be mud
and dust and phobia
and straining to scratch
surfaces or dig graves
or splash puddles or smack
mosquitoes or dodge bullets
and resist aches
and no one will want to marry
and all thoughts will be implications
and the words will rattle the
veins into and unto
and the laughs will be breasts
and the thirst will be quenched
and there is only the eager to be
and not or else become
unwanted and undone
or the microscopes of discovery
or we will retreat into
ideas of ourselves
projected on screens and in books
and no one will meet you
and no one will meet me
and we will become unmet peoples
afraid of  touch or 
chemical reactions 
or speaking and feeling the breeze 
being beautiful or ugly  or neither
and experience will teach
how to steal a weapon from a woman
and wear it like a skin 
and we don’t want to be women
or men anymore 
and babies will think themselves up
or risk being extinct 
or put up for adoption
or record deal or petri dish 
or tv commercial or tshirt brand
soon the only original living will 
be those that have yet to live
and the old will be outdated
or bought out or extinct 
and they use the masks we made for ritual
and call it art in their museums 
of colonizing and being colonized
and we make careers out of being
colonized or sold on shelves 
on networks, in campaigns
with slogans or catchy phrases
and snazzy graphics  
and we are all doing what we ought not to
and we are all living these fantastical ways
of being without dying too much 
or dying very little over a long period of time
and who says we were ever 
really dead when we died 
and yet the world was always mad
and never not enough and beautiful
though beauty is not a phrase you steal in your 
admiration, I see it in your impressions
in your gestures and impersonating life is a good way
to start living, but how about that living
to wear the tongue as is only yours
an acquired scar in the instrument 
that is your voice, and the loveliness 
of it all is that you still plant flowers
in April and listen to highways
that are really oceans as cars wave pass
rushing the wind in the shell of your ears 
like water crashing shorelines
and the only true metaphor
worth writing is the one 
you keep to yourself
between your god and you.
and the ones most apt to survive
are those who know the why 
regardless of the how.