Therapeutic Poetry

No punctuation. Stream of consciousness. This would have gotten me a terrible grade in class. But now I’m floating free, so…

Greedy Indecisions

I want to be a curved piece of bone
spit from the moon
weathered like the most supple
of civil servants
the muscle underneath
horse featherings slaking myself
over beach sand as I glow
like the Lady Gaga
of art poisoning the dry throats
and trembling thumbs of those awaiting
my work alone
with the sound of bullfrogs
in a national park after dark steam inside
the mouth I crave the kindness
of Naomi Shihab Nye the fame
of the most expensive
makeup counter
and the righteousness
of a Peace Corps worker
in my own moonlight with you
I’ll be
dying
a slim sacred
bone
so unlike my current flesh
which trembles thickly
with the snap
of each porcupine idea
dragging across the teeth
hovering in my wide Cheshire
gap

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