May 20, 2010

re: txt poem

Powers to arrest are infinite
abominations of I Fluid
movement solidifies in the hands of the cap-
tors-nee-insurgents of the revolution

In original form the boxer’s quality
of pluck meant heart or guts
apropos of the butcher’s practice
of plucking viscera from his stock

I am that little boy in blue bounding
pinball-like along the avenue Swinging
sticks Making a mess Throwing stones
And raising a holler

But I am also that little girl in pink
summer bow turning her waist
as she twisting twirls the intricate
steps of an unteachable dance

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