The directionless life

The directionless life is a mass of disembodied legs with no feet.
I can see them in my mind, roiling
in fleshy heat and sweet sweat – they wait
because nothing approaches them, nothing
swells with nearness though knees bend and calves flex doggedly under a huge lamp,
grass and neon. Brass and sleeves of ratty sweaters shelter cheeping rats –
and I clearly shift the covering cloth across my chest,
its woolen inside softly separating faults from intentions.
The directionless life…
who is the poignant one? The one who caught me up
out of the rolling creative swells,
out of His own mind?
Who was the fetal sprig God laughed to brush with His formative lips,
to coat with a holy breath laced with grace and spearmint?
What great teeth You have!
The better to chew your flavor forth, my dear…

The directionless life kicks on;
but in its own static, shocking rubbing
carpet and iron,
I realize anew the great art of openness and ocean,
the nautical shell of living and making. Love
lively leads my mind’s eye from the muscled cacophony
of patella
and quadricep –
the clear issue of directionlessness…is untrue.
That stasis affords itself too many paths, too many freedoms.

While I am not the poignant one,
I must ascertain some discipline.
These legs are gangrenous.
Bring brandy, and make it as few thrusts as possible.
Come spirit,
come sawtooth,
and chew away the dogged limbs.

There are only two directions:
further up and further in.

The directionless life


Little Rock, United States

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