Guys, meet stomach
Stomach meet everyone
Stomach loves to shrink
stomach loves to puke
stomach loves to ache
Stomach loves to churn
Stomach loves to
Oh it's breakfast?
I don't feel like it
Oh it's lunch
Pfft you're kidding
Stomach is weak
Stomach is annoying
Stomach is an asshole
I have become quite preoccupied with stomachs.
Ones that have skin stretched taut,
so thinly across that you can see every lie
they've ever swallowed.
Ones that shake
when the body laughs,
little waves threatening to spill
Ones that are held in,
too shy to reveal
the extent of their reach.
I have found myself reading them --
the depths of the creases,
the heights of the curves,
the shades of summer that
fade with fall.
They must mean something.
The contents of each
were not left to chance, no,
but were calculated decisions,
influenced by money, desire,
and calorie counting apps.
what does my stomach say about me?
What does yours say about you?
Those hot peppers you feed me
tsssss all the way down
smoke is in the intestines
have you punched me?
i am sore.
i am woozy from you
a wooden ship on rough seas
swallowed enough air for zeppelins
under your shirt hides a fleshy balloon
have I wronged you?
i am sensetive
there is a second stomach
and it is where words and sentences go
when you swallow them
instead of saying them out loud
And this process has become such
a mundane and common routine
that my second stomach is
overloaded with ugly
and unforgiving words
and if I am not careful
I will vomit all over you
seldom sitting with nothing to say
yet something says
something needs saying
sinking inside like a pile of snakes writhe
forcing the words
to betray vacuum forces
as I'm wanting to die
but refuse all for hope on the morrow
stomach in ties
my mind swiftly winds
around reasons to escape this sorrow
I used to be a stone mason
but I yearned for abstracts.
Gone, put down the chisel
and set out searching.
There was too much cemented,
too much process and experience
that I just couldn’t bear it anymore.
I couldn’t stomach the concrete.
It made me nauseous,
induced vomit whenever I got up
to head to work in the morning.
Hours of inhaled stone dust and wet.
The sweat, the time—
the painstaking time— it took to place
fieldstone and slate ever so perfectly,
precisely, as to not tip the wall.
Muscles ached from artistic vanity.
It was an ancient trade,
a construction criminal in a lineup
that made my shoulders scream.
Stone, emitted 6am chill
that reversed itself and heated
November hands by midday.
Meditation made creation.
Work was simple.
A goal to build to.
Once built, a new one.
Day after month after year.
Hiking lead to hilltop,
an office complex, twenty stories up.
An Olympic stadium view
brings me back to where I began.
Stomach churn and distant eyes;
Weathered hands never soften.
You feel the thunder in my life
in the body of my world
you look at my forehead at my mind
you sigh at all the overwhelming pressure
you shake your brain, oh those Americans
you look at it like shelves, each person a library
you shut the door and say it's dramatic you know.
And the things you tell yourselves to push; the quotes
all the mouths that quoted the first time said what good words
but they're not just for your ears you know
you're a whole being, 80% of your 'body' is below your head
like holistic health providers say, it's not the North where we should go,
East West and South are the everywhere here
Remember your hands
like your grandparents' cooking souls
Remember your feet like your grandparents dancing souls in the 20s, even Catholics (it's true)
Remember the beat, the peaceful instrumental song without a black sea of letters on white, but a sea of movement, feet on a white kitchen floor
Instead of washing your soul in more words
the scribbles were by a full hand, dropping it across an entire shoreline, more water for the ocean
if you could only write in 96-point font, like in an ant's eyes, what could the poor swallow
we write with one of our hands, the tip of a pen a rocketing thing, and I just want an angel to cry on me
Remember Remember like your grandparents whose parents' words or Bible were seperate from a flat flat piece of paper
Hold it, a round thing, that goes in your mind, tangible and sweet
forget that your stomach fills like a penny jar, a mistake
sell the wisdom and buy everything
a pair of blue jeans with 2 pockets
so that you do not fill with pennies, so many words that lose meaning
and then when you sell everything to buy wisdom, your eyes will not be so eager and wide
and you will not be lost in the fortune of quantity