As the locust spins its wings and arms
I attempt to move carefully with daddy
longlegged precision.
I have this ache that moves
in between
stones and boulders,
it flows over the houses where I've slept
and escaped from like maggots
that inhabit the dead
locust it's used as its' egg sack.
I've watched my choices secrete
this ache like my uterus
that sheds its' anxious lining
monthly; I am now everywhere
within my ecosystem.
In the reflective eddy's
I realize that as my ideals
have become my drive,
they're inconsistent with
the facts.
I'm held in place
by my own thumb tacks,
I'm a transferable skill
in a grassland of filled
occupancies.
My love that I give is not seen
as an asset to the one who
receives it but doesn't see it.
So I question all of my seething
and hopeful motives
because pressure to hold
on to the good is like a rubber resistor
to the million and a half volts
that I conduct with patience
through it.
All that I share though will not
be lost in my lifetime
but like Oscar Wilde or Pablo Picasso,
I must endure through
the suffering to which I admit,
is my life,
is my doing/undoing,
my sacrifices
but not my martyrdom.
The Earth which carries
the burden of its cycles
and never complains
and only continues to
regenerate; I am just a
b l i n k
I cannot help my transparent eyes
that swell like Sicilian
grapes left to ripen
in the Mediterranean climate.
I am a part of this system
of inconclusion,
this post-modern sequence of
repetitive conjunctions
and it matters not
that the moon is waxing
towards her opaque boundaries.
I am suffering through this
tidal filtration,
I am spinning my locust wings
before the death of fall
turns me back into soil.
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