Saturday, September 25, 2010

124. Of Fleshy Fruits and Tissues

As you know, we are
shaped like tubers and
tubers grow from the
forks of our bodies. The
tubers grow from our
bodies like the tumors
that their growing sounds
like. There are sounds
like rumors that grow
in your stomach, where
all animals live. Make
and wear whatever
shirt, whatever shorts,
and enjoy this warm
day’s sunlight coming.

As you know, we are
equipped with fleshy
appendages that we
fatten and straighten
at any provocation. To
be sat on might be such
a provocation, and one
we would search out, to
feel the touch of human
hands upon our bodies
growing tuberous at the
condition of our now not
being alone. Such human
becomings are just human
beings, to find a mate not
for mating but coupling.
Aching and up to it, as
their saying goes, and we
know what we always are.

As you know, our aching
tubers burrow like rodents.
Sorrow like a dent in the
side of a head and the mind
can’t think it anymore out,
but we find a way to find
what we want, what we
need, be she he, be he she.
The tightest spots hide
also in the forks of our
bodies, the woman’s little
slit that opens to eat, the
tiny round hole that must
relax to admit any of us in.
But anyone, but any one
will not do, for our tubers
must burrow where the
warmth is ripe and right
and waiting for us to come.

As you know, our passion
is the passion of a being
awake and searching for
a reason to live. Pushing
and slaking are merely
the part where we make
our bodies know what our
heart must devise. Put
your ear to the chest to
listen for the rushing, to
listen to the rushing blood
that is not blood at all,
but merely the breathing
of the passionate heart.

As you know, we save
some passions for the
evening, and then let
the evening go. When
we let ourselves be
human, then all we are
is art or rising anger.
I have carved into this
carton’s mango sorbet
the tiniest perfect cunt,
and it is beautiful and
delicately scented, and
it opens quietly to say
that it is ready for me
in its orange sort of way.

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