(Shrugs)

I am not quite sure
it's just something 'bout poetry that gets me goin'

Is it

(Left hand swerves to the left as if bearing the weight of a concept held)

The flexibility one has
to pick and press, pinch and pound language
into a poetic product  manipulated from play-do, so to speak?

Or is it

(Right hand turns to the right as if bearing the weight of an object held)

The ability one has
to etch every event ever experienced
onto paper, an elaborate biography, so to speak?

(Hands come together)

Maybe both
(shrugs)
Maybe neither
(shrugs)

We were two spoken words
connected
byasyllable
but the long drawing out

s e p a r a t e d  u s

Dear World,

Today, the fruit of my labor
  is bitter, is sweet.

The hours spent gritting my teeth while the sun's nails dug into my stiff, strained back as I dug to plant, fetched a pail to water, and sat and watched carefully,

The workers who've rawed their backs spending their hours with mine as they sung of better tomorrows, joked of stories old, and grinned for grinning's sake

Fertilized this moment
  To be bitter, to be sweet.

And world,
Satisfaction is found once I taste the fruit.  

Sincerely,

Laborer

Where are the grass stains I must obtain on my white t-shirt to establish my wiliness to “get *****”?
Where are the ****** urges I must purge with ******, lewd, and snide jokes of the opposite ***?   Where is the confidence I must amplify with impulsivity so reason is kept captive somewhere, hidden from consciousness?
Where is my preordained disposition in giving commands to ones not fit for a position of authority?
Where is my masculinity?

Where are the words, long in lettering, that captivate not the attention of comprehension but of curiosity amongst others?
Where are the capabilities of manipulating numbers in a way one performs faster than the standard calculating machine?
Where are the messages I must retain once I completed the reading of a book?
Where is my Intellectuality?

Where is my sense of correlation of colors and patterns, of fabrics, of style?
Where is my aversion to the concept of bruising one’s body for rough play tends to direct in that direction?
Where is the decibel of higher vocals?
Where are the strides taken with more movement ‘round the hips?
Where is my homosexuality?

Where is my ability to manage my tongue in that it is capable of switching spoken words to fit them who cannot understand?
Where my culinary skills in creating edible sources of energy that are saturated in spice and colors?
Where is my Latinity?  


Where are my products of raw originality?
Where are my thought provoking notions held together by a commonality: my mind?
Where are my blueprints, harboring designs for the business I have yet to construct?
Where is my Americanity?


Answer:
Snitched into my fabric,
Welded and wrought into my frame,
Liquefied and pressurized
Revised and ratified
Into me.