spontaneous burst
I haven’t written a poem in awhile
but now when my head is clogged and my brain is fuzzy
I suddenly follow the whim to write
because this morning
walking towards brain candy Berkeley
I saw the drips of poetry on the sidewalk curb
and last night
walking towards the new dawn of fair trade on campus
I saw poetry scrawled inside the glowing sunset
has poetry been locked from my soul
or in it?
my words have not held me like anchors of my truth
so have I been myself
without these words pouring from my fingertips?
who is the girl,
woman?
who is the woman,
girl?
And I am a woman now
my womb has been tested and the
porcelain doll feeling has floated away
and now I feel like a
vital organ
warm and tender and so hard to leave
but today I feel like a marsh toad
slipping through the yucky mucky sludge
but my head is in the clouds
and I am wearing bubblegum pink
And I’ve given up coffee and drink a lot more tea
And though I slept through meditation this morning
I really want to be an instrument of thine peace
and am looking for my inner lotus garden
om mani padme hum
lotuses grow in the mud
but they are beautiful
and I am beautiful
and you are beautiful
but Bush is not beautiful
and New Orleans is not beautiful
(though it was the most beautiful place in the country
until the black people looted it.)
fuck that.
I am privileged
I am safe
I am loved
I am cherished
but I can’t keep the world
safe
loved
and cherished
too
so my wings are torn
But I am whole again
when I hold him in my purple bed
and all I can hear is the
coordination of our lungs
torn by smoke and hospital visits
and our freckles blend into eachother
who is that man,
girl?
who is that woman,
boy?
but now when my head is clogged and my brain is fuzzy
I suddenly follow the whim to write
because this morning
walking towards brain candy Berkeley
I saw the drips of poetry on the sidewalk curb
and last night
walking towards the new dawn of fair trade on campus
I saw poetry scrawled inside the glowing sunset
has poetry been locked from my soul
or in it?
my words have not held me like anchors of my truth
so have I been myself
without these words pouring from my fingertips?
who is the girl,
woman?
who is the woman,
girl?
And I am a woman now
my womb has been tested and the
porcelain doll feeling has floated away
and now I feel like a
vital organ
warm and tender and so hard to leave
but today I feel like a marsh toad
slipping through the yucky mucky sludge
but my head is in the clouds
and I am wearing bubblegum pink
And I’ve given up coffee and drink a lot more tea
And though I slept through meditation this morning
I really want to be an instrument of thine peace
and am looking for my inner lotus garden
om mani padme hum
lotuses grow in the mud
but they are beautiful
and I am beautiful
and you are beautiful
but Bush is not beautiful
and New Orleans is not beautiful
(though it was the most beautiful place in the country
until the black people looted it.)
fuck that.
I am privileged
I am safe
I am loved
I am cherished
but I can’t keep the world
safe
loved
and cherished
too
so my wings are torn
But I am whole again
when I hold him in my purple bed
and all I can hear is the
coordination of our lungs
torn by smoke and hospital visits
and our freckles blend into eachother
who is that man,
girl?
who is that woman,
boy?