She walks. This never has
been done before. She shows
how it is done: her forearms
raised, waving her hands
on the natural ratchets of her wrists,
she takes steps! She balances
on black spike heels so sharp
that they would pierce your heart
if she could walk on you,
and smiles to show it off:
this is a giddy new art
she owns squealing because
she steps on certain things,-
spittle and cigarette butts
littered from some past,-
and comes back from the store
with the first ice-cream cone
in the whole world to date,
her walking being as light
as my irony is heavy.
She blinks rapidly when
she tells me all this because
wild insects of perception get
into her eyes and bite them.
Thinking of history, oh I
must speak of What’s-her-name,
sweet sixteen and never been
and never will be, just is;
but speak of love and she’s
a sweet one to the senses,
palpably adequate, e-
motionally to be husbanded
because the world is weird
because it’s here while she
is. Yesterday would surprise
her if she heard of it,
as will tomorrow when she does,
or else not. As of now,
things are for the first
and last time timeless like
the Classic Comic strips
and known to her agreeably
except for stepped-on things
littered from some past,
so what the hell, rage,
give in to native graces:
her brains are in her tits!,
as she knows bouncingly,
and there for all to love,
since the world fights its war
in her womb and so far wins.
What the Hell, Rage, Give in to Natural Graces
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