Three notebooks sprawled on the table holding six months of secrets poured from my chest, hidden, mostly. But why keep them inside this body.. when she wants to pour out, and out, and out. Out with it! You witch, you whore, evermore you are permitted to roar your thunderous knowing, so says eros, muse and mother, oh, she’s saucy, ready for your chorus of questions, visionary. Where did I lose you? Where did I begin to think this poetry was all my own? Words are evidence of you writing through this body, revelations of conscious clarity. I see. I see? And taste? What of it? My tongue, its preference, the way I experience bitter as sweet. How is that? A cellular arrangement, or something more? Joyous attention, yes? Arousing and mysterious and my hand knows this. Curious. Come back into the central column where breath emanates, buzzing golden aliveness through 33 vertebrae and a throat flowering open to voiceless gnosis.
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I always enjoy the heat in your poems and the redness that is often present. You might like this tribute to one of my favorite trees, well, they all are
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/the-sugar-maple
love this ❤️