This mighty heat mubles thunder
Mania in the ripest of forms
What am I doing here
Am I really living at all
The mocksqueak sweat
Not giving a chance
Not giving to Buddahs
Or reasons to Gods
And neither am I
A breeze would be nice
No fussing
No cries
I am just learning
How to silence theses sighs
And yet the restive soul walks ahead
Confronting the overwhelming heat
A vigor more glorious than sweat itself
Marking my rosy flesh worship’d
everything today seems o’ so bright
and exactly how the air ought to be
gallivanting summer softness
spreading my hands in all directions
the redness of my shoes urging this ardor
this conquerable will who barefoot welcomes me
Headlines sweat your splendor
The laughter behind fans
Thick centering palpitations
Their tribal dance offerings
Altering the winter palette
Triple digiting echos to rain
*Since this is not scrabble – Digiting is a totally made up word.
Almost fitness like, to the tongue. Blame the heat, such an
opportunist. . .
Unclear title
No kidding
With my belly full of dirt
Wicked brain gargling this summer rain
Unable to write without puncturing spines
Humidity bone staining my arch
Exaggerations – oh no
Revolutionary quartets fuse these vertebrates
Chairing this roomed posture of mine to dry
Hardening my howl with it’s outstanding prowl
