“I DIDN’T MAKE THESE ARRANGEMENTS, I’M SIMPLY HERE”
—after
Whitman, Creeley, & Celona
in a poem that is the body
of flesh and bone, not a metaphor for
the body, which is nothing
but ideas and images
and words. I'm simply here, yelling:
“Up against the wall, motherfucker!”
which does not indicate authority, only that
I've fucked up
this poem. The plan is the plan is the plan is
the plan is
the body: a stomach
with “V-I-V-A” inked about
the belly, a liver spot on the cheek
a birthmark behind the knee.
The idea is a poem born of
the body: chemical reactions in the brain:
a poem unto itself
but of the body also, a coil called the soul.
And the soul likes
you and I
the likes of the soul some sliver
of grass
or words falling
from open mouths: the vessels from
which it speaks.
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