the entirety of my feeling is resting on my tongue,
asking for birth, release, freedom:
here at the border post, the guards have fled, and the memory dreamer refugees, previous detained, hesitantly, gingerly, step across a narrow invisibility, a legal fictionalization, courageously frightened, but words of “at last,” “if not now, when,” and “god bless” blend into a merging crescendo of “yes!”
the road chamfers, dusty gives way, all the traveller’s shoes, now wetted, stained and staining, make amusing sounds of connection and interaction - squishy, distinctive, known in every language, dialect - unrealized but known, spoken, somehow comprehended.
why is this heaven wet?
is truth moist?
indeed, for this place is truthful, and sensory networks cross, senses are both heightened and bluntly realized- and this confusion delights in human land mines
let me explain:
my tongue has eyes,
my tongue speaks the words we have in commonality,
my tongues hears your sounds,
my tongue penetrates parts of you
that no other-part touches in the
though you might think this is simply ****** subterfuge, it is not.
simply you need to understand how
deeply this human connects, in his way.