If you want a name you'll find it between the steps of ladders, like the bullet holes of wounded soldiers; a body riddled with questions rather than answers
If you want a being you'll find something precious in the ugly, something beating, or eating it's way out of the chest; the imagination clumsily chooses a newborn alien, or a botched abortion
But no, it's neither of these things, but it is...
And that's okay
If you want a poet, colored and racist, a dancer balanced and limbless, an actor, melodrama and actress
They're all yours for the taking;
Remind me of the woman who spoke of her vacation at the round table of a small town cafe; how she took a vacation to the rainforest, and had much to see; and how her crimson red shades matches the drapes; after all it's the time of the month and it lasts for days