The Hoop-de-Doo of You

Somewhere between the soul and crotch – the heart –
and lungs, esophagus, intestines, kidneys, liver
and whatever other clumps and forces shiver, tug
and course, eject, protect and mitigate with biological effect
to keep the body resurrecting morning after morning: oh,
we’ve got our versifying uses for the ways our body parts
symbolically go wheee and boing: though surely spirit – groin –

persist as what primarily impel expression of the wish. But
what exactly seeks, attracts, repels, elicits a ‘poetic thought’? –
what constitutes the strange noetic condensations that
the mind has wielded, wrought, will wring to wing
a simulacrum of a living thing? – to sting and swing and brew,
pursue, imbue and skew? – to bring outrage and absolution
to the slew? – and grace and music, too? – and sex, oh yes,

oh sex, oh sex, oh sex: the way you vex me like a banshee
every night until the recollected sight of you can’t not ignite
me into hex. One rambles, rhyming, hoping through
the hoop-de-doo of you one might proceed – succeed in
cultivating some construed warm seed: to rear and render
some new glory to its quivering, unnecessary story –

and alluring throne. I just can’t leave this thing alone.




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