—for Sara Femenella
People of the western ways, use the major tools.
Size yesteryear up no more in face-forward
sexual positions nor sum another's lotions
through your own taut skins.
You too can be admired for a kind
of counseling that brackets out overgrown storms
in this planet's semantic discriminations.
I keep seeing war whirling within a bruised globe
like I see war within the cold blue cloud above my cereal bowl.
Like I could kick someone for their lane this morning on the LIE1
as easily as never hearing all the verbs in one handcuff
or the falling nouns from her blindfolds that shed
around the pet's black bag of freshly-thrown dirt.
My twin rib, likewise, exits through over-ripe French windows.
And was as simply reptile as the guy with a bigger rig.
This is not another war song, my pea. This is a caramelized
treatment of syntax that maps the wetness spatially spread
between the mucus that harbors our bodies. Scientists
like to say parameciums and fleshy membranes,
forgoing all the orgasms before and because of poetry.
They like to say, Spare an effort for plastic bouquets, but if we don't
"understand," how will they corral the effigies of thirsty places?
So, this is really about the three-minute attentions
that bind every fourth war, which is a considerable racial race span
casting back the map of influence stretching
like ceiling, fish netting in to flaccidly poke and rip
until we rail against each other's inches
beside the dirty rain of envoys, crushed rock shrapnel
buried in the ones who do eventually come to make it "out."
1Long Island Expressway