The Poets' Place

Slipping

the world a raindrop my head a universe
sitting on a shoulder falling
before it rolls
in-between hills

cleavage rises north USA south SA
a valley opens for a tongue I'll always be lost in-between
exploring north and south
lost in-between

navel a closed alley introspection (going into navel)
where cyclop’s eye
moistens its way
to absorb life

translucent dot I am the dot, the red dot is who
awakens slipping I am
back deaf and blind
into itself

I like that you are alive and well,

Branchy. I talk to myself a lot--

it is better than talking to a wall.

I'm always running into walls.

The last one left me carrying a brick

a tombstone that says 'Press here'

and nothing happens.

except life goes on

and on and on and on

repeating itself in the same formats, only I want to think they are new, different, but

they are only in disguise, and we're all building imaginary bridges, playing with words, painting thoughts to touch someone, staring at the screen, looking out the window, watering plants, pruning rosebushes......................................................................

Susan is close: I like my breasts (because they are mine), the landscape is surreal, but what do you do with words--maybe dada, maybe nada. It is whatever you want it to be, never what someone else wrote or meant--who knows what someone else means? Ilusions. Freedom is one of them. Who wants a babbler at a time like this.

I think of my body being transferred from A to B like a dog asleep in a cage, shipped. Better that the dog stays or vanishes and we find a new home for ourselves. Our choice, not the shipping company's. Homeless is a vast open universal place to sit down and contemplate. I have done this too many times.

Susan said, 'After nine years of reading posts in this group, I can no longer spell,' something like that. It is a great line, Susie! I can no longer spell, either... Just keep the challenges and all the instructional wonderful work you have in other threads. Forget the chit chat-- maybe once in a blue moon we go back to reread-- should not have time to do that, for we are supposed to be writing and reading new posts. It is all about begin again begin again begin again... I admit I am tired of beginning again, but is that not what we do with every breath?

I have at least four mountains to climb at the present, so the buttocks are okay, too, Branchy. It's the tongue that is confused, cut in half. Mute is the future to save the throat. The tongue will be cut off sooner or later.

Ok, cut.

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