Wednesday, February 7, 2018

The Eyes on a Potato



Ought we to feel blessed that we don’t instantly
evince each wince of shame, humiliation
and embarrassment that stings us through
the day with giant hot pink bruises?
.
Ought we to be glad that we don’t
morphologically manifest in languorously
thickening somatic lengths and folds of covering
like rubber matting – become the outward form
of all the lolling useless dolorous expressions
of depression which through weeks across
all regions of us slink down slowly, flatly
to embrace the ground, obeying gravity too well?
.
Ought we be relieved our systems do not swell
to force our flesh to heave and sway
and atrophy into soft serpentine reductions
of our limbs and fingers to be swallowed up by
rolls of plasm we are able only with deep pain
to push ahead in increments of inches toward
something somewhere we don’t care if we attain?
.
Or ought we to be sorry? If disharmony were
freely granted agency to show itself in everything
that bodies felt and feel and had and have and were
and are, wouldn’t that bestir it into harmony?
What un-impedimental things to be!
Being ultimately is the outcome of “to be.”
It’s enough to make the eyes on a potato see.

.

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