grabbing a handful porcupine jello,
the space contained in a floating soap bubble,
lips vibrating, tongue clicking, throat coughing
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,
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
to hang on to.
Image by Reini68 via Flickr