The hands
are a broken place to be when there is nothing to touch,
my hands
are not hands without something to impress,
concrete,
bone, teeth, grab, grab, grabbing
for daffodils
that no longer laugh,
for
nocturnal bluebirds,
and
tin-men filled with lemon-yellow moxie
in slices
of a pie, I have only had one without weight
I’ve heard
jazz before, but not quite like this
it moves
like a woman, like the woman I’d rather be
sass with
class, and legs that make walking look like honey burning
and only
when your breath between words falls on my breasts
could I
ever unzip leather, and flush the fear of my inner Marilyn
Of course I
play in the thoughts that this is abandoned
of all the
whiskey and all the wolves,
that a
greater resolve is held liable, some grandiose gavel beating,
the
internal clock we’ve been pacing ourselves to,
and it has
been some-time now,
Still, my
hands remain nothing but wrists with growths,
ten tiny
songstresses attached lookin’ to grab
ten
minuscule voices stretching for gold,
met by ten
commandments whipping them back,
and
holding their outlandish destinations hostage.
[Paying the cost to the boss, BB King - INspired.]
[Paying the cost to the boss, BB King - INspired.]
