by Mick Tomlinson
my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul,
stretched parabola forming a straight line
I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling
from my lips, this tired old street corner
this tired old man giving the world what it wants.
I am enlisted.
I am the bubble hidden deep
inside the bone.
I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony,
stung by his own pride.
here, brother, listen:
walk with me while I tell you about the
accubation of life
and all of it's little lovers,
those tiny frail things so easily forgotten.
my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind,
soft, flattened, delightful
attracted to flavor.
a million spiders bred a million more,
and still their webs spread empty between the trees.
this is the way God works.
libraries engulfed in flames,
a genius child sold into slavery.
we all become what we already are:
gentle creatures abacinated by society
fenced in and cornered by evil dreams.
we thrash in our sleep,
we wake violently,
we burst onto the scene like lions
from another planet,
hungry, oh so wild and hungry.
this is the way We work.