If my thoughts spiral as snail shells do,
It is only to protect the plasmic mass that moves
Towards leaves of different greens,
Towards mounds and different scenes.
Ectoplasmic as it seems,
Powers are given to those in need.
To estrange may be to clean
Mishaps of older dreams
Of being better,
Than a snail.
Fetal horses may gallop in the womb
After strings let down from heaven,
And hark back to generations of music
Buried under the skin.
After birth, the hoarse gamut soars
And, as a fast moving cloud,
Uncovers a sun that is unmistakably everlasting.
The sort of confrontation I had with the sun was pleasant
I was marching west as it was setting
Life had never been this illuminated before
No shadows betrayed my presence anymore
Still, I carry death in my bosom.
Each drag drags it, downward motion
Towards the other side of the earth,
Towards the bottom of the universe.
As someone with mass and gravity,
I pulled both doors open,
Ready for scrutiny and hate.
The mirror shook but didn’t break,
For the goal was Love,
Love for Love’s sake.
Wave the censer in my face
As you do, perfunctorily every month.
Illuminate the Pride pie I so eagerly ate
When you weren’t around.
Quit the calliope and let me sleep,
Quit the amble, four to the floor beat.
The pedometer stopped counting when you left,
My fingerprint stopped working, as in jest.
I ingest the Pride pie,
And taste the salacious words inside my mouth.
I chew them left and right,
Right and left.
Wait for them to soften,
So I can swallow
The bitter refluxes that wear my throat down.
Do not talk to me,
I am not yet who I need to be.
But do not render me despondent either,
Find my body by the yew, later down the line,
I’m sure it should talk in better light.