Image by Reini68 via Flickr

grabbing a handful porcupine jello,

the space contained in a floating soap bubble,

lips vibrating, tongue clicking, throat coughing

strangled groan,

staggering,

shuffle leap into the blinding wall.

How can each voice be different and call us on

To what might be oblivion?

Could be life is in voices speaking

not to be understood, but felt.

Feel the song of edges

Knife and saw, feather and leaf,

Twang!

vibrate and tilt until something not yet solid shakes into

the peripheral field.

Don’t look! it is not for seeing.

Don’t listen! it is not a sound.

Feel it there, not in words

but whispers of grunting fetishes

ground into a powder

taken by the wind.

sticks in the eyes stinging,

muffles the ears

leaves us arms stretched out waving about

frantically for something

real

to hang on to.

Image by Reini68 via Flickr