I want to be the girl tied and flung

aloft wildly

I want you at the other end of the rope
doing the flingin’

all this drink has gone straight to the
fault-line of my ******. Pressing directly on the
button my body has wired to the word “longing”
but it is not tied to anyone or anything, just the
tequila down there ******* with the buttons

He asks for the knife and I don’t want to spar so I tell him:  we made a slide out of it.  We made gravy out of it.  We turned it into a homeless shelter for banana’s displaced by the sandstorms in your bedroom.  It’s a new language.  It’s something see through now, something you might hold to the light in a long car ride.  It’s an excuse to not listen.  It’s what’s left after you’ve eaten all the cheese and there’s still a thousand crackers on the plate.  It’s one click away from getting it done.   It’s stuck in an old contract it signed when it was young and desperate.  It’s high fashion.  It’s remembering you on fire with hope like every ******* dawn.

I am a stream of always
perfect fish, sometimes
leaping

it wasn’t till night that I realized what had been bothering me all day and when I saw it at last I was sad, in the way I do, when the bothering is so easily-remedied-a-thing, once seen, or in this case, felt, as it was the longing of my feet to be without shoes, sans socks too, no winter, **** concrete, sidewalk, home every encased thing.  It was night in a park with the children wahooing when I got quiet enough to listen to the feet, who’d been fed up all day, and when I slipped out of the sturdy hiking shoes and pressed my feet, which by this time had nearly given up hope of ever getting what they need, onto the cool spring grass my silly knees nearly buckled.  And I was greedy for the different surfaces, to give them to the feet, who longed to walk and slide over them, to hold pebbes in toes, to crunch twigs and acorn caps, to squelch cold blades of grass together.  I got a text then, from a friend, “I want to run naked through a feild of cilantro” and then my whole body started its caterwauling and boo hooing, and I felt as if I’d maybe started something I couldn’t contain, having given into the feet.

A poem is a needle on the energy meridian:

if you hit it at all, you hit the whole **** thing.

I expand, ingrediently.
Song
sun, bare foot
on accelerator
all the way, heart
at last
excited.

What roads where?
Who wind who?

Because day meanders a tra la la alchemy

And night shivers me into
the furthest permissions of gold