Monday, January 17, 2011

a compass

i am but a finger
on a giant hand
pointing out to the stars
from an outstretched arm

the other hand deeply digs into the ground
as if to keep faraway legs on the mound
from escaping
from running, and jumping, or perhaps tumbling
because
sitting is better than slipping or tripping

all conducted by a deep magma rumbling voice
formed deep in a plasma wand of slow consciousness
squeezed upwards through massive tectonic bass plates
pounding out the sweet music that tweaks all of our fates

grumbling and groaning
and
breaking and building

through steamy soprano fissures she, joyously
denying gods with her power she, sensuously
turns jets into flowers and flowers to jets
serenaded by powerful gods-mocking pets

each million-million nails
plucking millions of strings
each million-million tongues
flapping songs, making winds

each million-million fingers
tightening their grips
although there's no space left
not for shoulder, nor hips

each million-million mouths
making chicken-cluck pucks
from the whistles and whines
to the gurglings and sucks

each million-million howls
being slapped in the face
each million-million souls
chained down without grace

mother runs round in circles
yet always straight ahead
and she nevers complains
no matter where she is led

what am i?

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