(no subject)

[j_j_j_jenna]

hands outstretched like vines that crawl up walls
pulling the energy that arises in me toward the roof of an old theater
full of young daydreamers
and sagacious worshipers of vernacular
and the movement
of tongues that reverberate vocal symphonies.

those hands, my hands
the same ones that clap and snap when the poet hits the verses just right
the same ones that have palms with lines too short to allow me the length of life i need to experience and love for endless nights.

those hands, my hands
the same ones that gently shook amir sulaiman's hand and felt the presence of his divinity and greatness.
the same ones that just hours before the scaled expanses of sun-kissed skin
tracing lines with fingers that pulled bare hips closer
in hopes
that we could together float
hit the ceiling and kiss it
like Harrison and the Ballerina before they were shot down.

Sitting in a room of peer poets
who shake
who stomp
who scream snap clap
shooting fire from hands that don't know how to sit complacent in their laps
the walls of the old theater have crumbled
and the stars sit in envy
of our passion and beauty
our longevity in a revolution of consciousness
unknown by the bereft masses.
we have become the stars bedazzling the blank night sky.
and the moon shines on our bodies amidst flames of verbal carnage
it enhances the curvature of our spines
as our bodies lift in passion
for the word
for the moment
for the three a.m. raspberry that caused ascertainment
of my breath

in the light of that moon
the color of our skin
the place where we call, "home"
and whoever we spent the night eskimo kissing
does
not
show
instead all we see
is lungs rising and falling free
like waves of skin that danced on bed sheet sands
and from those hands to those sands
the two moments become eternal
always living and always remembered
by one of us
even if it passes through time
tangled within this simple rhyme.