Written 2/07
I want to become words themselves
and not only roll them,
like duck-pin bowling balls
through my cavernous mind
and over the bumpy road of my tongue,
but feel them on my skin,
in my hair, and in my nose.
To find out if "enlightenment"
doubles well as a shampoo and conditioner,
or if "plethora" can keep me warm
if sewn together with "wit," and "comfortable";
How "water" as a word feels as it
rolls over my back, or if
"caress" feels as light as fingers across my chest.
I envy my pen, the only direct contact
I can have with my words. - I can't even
touch them until they've been
written on paper or printed from my laptop,
a distant connection to objects that seem
to shoot straight from somewhere between
my heart and my brain, then
traveling down my strong, left arm
while I sit and cry, wondering if
the weak tea I'm drinking of
"sorrow" tinged with "jealousy" will
keep me satisfied until
"philosophy" is done, baking with the bread.
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