where words can't go
I asked for the carpenter ants of meaning.
I wanted safe ground to venture on.
understanding were boots I wore.
I could have been happy welling in quicksand
or uncovering a thousand cockroach festival beneath me
or a sinkhole surrounding my descending
or an attack of slow flying angry wasps
as potential dancing bare skin attack.
but instead it feelings
that express as an origin of dank.
emotions that are improbably clammy,
that I can't get a mind grip on them to boot.
wanted to believe the source was outside of me.
so loud yet vacuous for thought to track,
yet deep-seated, instinctively engrained.
maybe hooked on a past live trauma
that doesn't generate images
but certainly it dreadfully lingers
as an invisible heartfelt fog.
can't make words go there
and come back to me
with hunting dog success.
wallowing in an impress of feelings
that are edgy but disingenuous as thought.
can't make words come out of here.
this is more deeply embodied to a larger me
than knowing ever takes me.
what happened to mind-chauffeur talent,
that I would have to come to know me
beyond what meaning has always offered? . . .
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