"Running through a mile of wasted compiled vile
I find myself conflicted sitting in a position
groaning I'm foul planting a seed of tan and brown
the snake comes out of me and it flees deposited manure
Gastly every movement is not pure, sometime it's deterred
so now I gravitate as I clasp my cheeks
out from the plummets from the tests intestinal ...
verbiage I'm not on my knees
Yet, yes I bow down bowel comes out of me
What I just planted was healthy indeed
it was a groupings of so many seeds
running in through my garden
or would you pardon
Me as I sit posture above a toilet
and now I let Go of the grouping for you see is my bowels moving
My waste has been displaced
into a porcelain throne filled with water clear
as I touch the handle it's spirals down
Maneuvered Manure
the tunnel to eventually become one with the sewer"
LION
She was upset, beleaguered and beautiful
(in a wholesome feline kind of way)
He saw her problems as recurrent and swift,
maneuverable, agile, hostile, a little bit mean
Her call for assistance was not a helpless
appeal for a romantic deliverance but a clear-eyed
call for a partner with skills, an blunt attitude and
enough of a heart, who would want her intact
when the dust cleared away
“Will you be with me?” she asked
“I am your lion!” he said, his mane an unkempt
mess, his fangs still concealed, his black-rimmed
golden eyes now more alert to the savannah beyond
“I was hopeful” she said, as some of her problems,
seeing this discussion, began sliding from cover
to find running room…..
I've wanted to write this poem for the last few days
But I keep losing the lines.
Things get erased.
Concepts never clearly articulated
Or realized. All that remains are
Just fragments, like:
"Maneuverable Joy."
"I see the love between the hate."
And: "Is this how you treat the people you love?"
Is this how we treat the people we love?
You see?
I never lost the poem.
It only now appears in the present.
Just as the nature of love does.
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