Words spit fire from inside my ancestral choir.
Singing verses not yet explored or known from the inside
Of the human species, unable to relate.
I am the everything. My vowels feed my bowels,
Making the sun shine on rainy days.
The doors open inside my brain’s membranes.
Pinging the nodal appetites that fight synchronic pain.
Shingles fed by Pringles poison the body of my goddess.
Mother of my children. Sweet cherubs of the world that we awoke.
I sang in the church choir each Thursday night.
I was coached to vocalize my praise for him.
I was coached to let my rhythm marry the system
Of Baptist hymnals sung for hundreds of years now.
John’s head rolling. Politicians’ heads now polling.
I learned a thing or two there. Standing in front of the power brigade made
The social animals sitting on wooden benches, not yet calling us witches.
Not burning us at the stake, because for heavens sake we were holy.
For we are the beginning and the end. The next generation to sing the lullabies
And the stories to be fed to our children. The morning glory.
Dressed in your Sunday’s best looking to impress. They called me names.
They bit their tongues to refrain from the long hair growing down my neck.
From the questions unanswered and unchecked.
Where did the dinosaurs come from Mr. Greene?
I’ll talk to you after class, he did beam.
But we would sneak out across the street and buy dip.
Put a bit in our lips and spit venom while waiting for the lip service to end.
Already cursing another Sunday right around the bend.
These are the memories of being put into a class.
For it is those buildings with those crosses where most play pretend.
Big girls playing princess dress up and wearing their best make up.
Where it is easier to sit down and shut up than to give up.
Where hypocrites find solace breaking bread and drinking from the same cup.
These are the memories of a child not being asked.
What do you believe in?
Do you have enough education even?
And if you did would you still attend?
what do people write about when they have nothing to write about? that nothing they write about is their everything. that black spot, hole, mole is their cancer. their immortality they are fighting. fingers move and thoughts groove. i don’t know what more i have left to give. does a person reach a point where there are no more choice words? no more voice to give? no more rhymes to craft. no more room to laugh. we have reached the end. the plane has landed and you are standing at the edge of the earth.
there is play.
words crafted a certain way.
a blank canvas to fill with color.
darkness you know like no other.
because it follows you.
the lightness too.
all wrapped up in one.
the moon and the sun.
so when you get to that place and there is nothing more to say, what are you to do? do you repeat your thoughts like a mantra? I love you. I love you. hoping to get to the other side. where your words are not heard but prized. where conversations begin and end. where dialogue is not a sin. this is the existential price to pay for a life spent searching for truth. for a life searching for you.
there is exercise.
muscles strengthened to realize.
the body that you own, owns you.
you drive it as if a vehicle to bruise.
when wrecked it is discarded.
treat your new vehicle more guarded.
that is, if you are to be obtained
into the system again.
if you are pushed back into the vortex let it take you. shotgunned into another life begun, if you let it. hold back and you will become pure static. where sound is not heard but is ecstatic. Ecstasy. where in the vacuum of space you find your place. where energy is eternal. this is the prize you win for a life spent doubting. for a life seeking love.
that is everything.
start it over and say it again.