What if I stood before you yummy, naked, and giggling?
Would the little children in Park La Brea grow long noses?
Would the Neiman Marcus matrons buzz for security?
Would the baristas at Starbuck’s charge me extra for a Venti Americano?
Would the poets and writers in the Collective ovate me standing?
I am because….
I am your breath, your astonishment, your looney.
I am your sex, your howl, your suckling.
I am your dirty little feet, your lilac wine, your green jello.
I am your blood fire shadow-ghost mommy.
And now I shall whoop it out…
I am your favorite.
I am because…. I Am.
I am the poet of your breath.
My heart-lungs are in you predawn computer’s a’glowing.
Soft! The broken-breasted one is typing to save her life,
stiff with the Muse between her legs.
I exhale and she poets herself unto glory be.
I dissolve into the Lady of the Rainbow as she ascends into her art
gallery of brain. I smile whilst she chakras masterpieces of pain.
O dear, a lonely one over there with swollen ankles is unkittening her heels.
Breathe, pussy-cat, breathe.
And in the far away night sky, it is he, he who sings an aria of luminous loss.
You shall possess tunes of eternity, young man. Yes, and I will hum along.
Alas, there suffers a poet inhaling a grief we shall not speak of. No.
This one I will wait for, just up ahead, where all infinity bubbles with joy.
Breath is not needed where her sweet one eternally celebrates.
My compadre poet who breathes fire into mythical creatures as lovers
has done her job well. All applause and brava, Divine Mistress of Phoenixes.
And our Spirit Guide, our Maestro of Genius, our Poet Daddy.
He raises his baton to the terrible beauty of beginnings.
The orchestra holds its breath, but the maestro is untamed and wild.
With a howling crash, he unleashes the music of the spheres into our very souls.
Captain, Guru, Wise Fool, you are our inspiration, our respiration.
And we, we are the Collective Sigh.
(photo: Jack Grape’s Wednesday Morning Class)
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