Up

Up

Here’s a design I love –

            a surefire method to tickle the silliest bone in your body.

I am going

            to pull the stop from the tub….and together,

            (You and I, I and You)
we will watch the scuzzy borings get sucked into oblivion.

 
And now – this broad field of whatever flower suits your fancy –

opens before you, behind you, above you, beside you, beneath you, inside of you…

The one and only thing I require is that all formality be banned at once.

Not a whit of rehearsal, not a degree of the stage elements –

I will not give you the slightest chance to stand

            on ceremony.
All stiff convention that keeps our noses from touching,

our veins from converging – I am abolishing them from the start.

Down they go, sucked out of existence right along with all manner of monotony.

This is the way we came into being…the intention there

from the moment we enter…a motionless sphere of life.

 
Let’s celebrate ourselves then,

            and de-crust the potato sack scab crushing our keen insides.

For we are not gross flytraps, ugly banners to be

            abused by the sticky atmosphere.
We are not the textbooks of logicians, nor are we

bored herd animals, too sleep-heavy for motion.

We are stuff of exaltation.

 
I tell you all these things because

Walt Whitman knows his shit;

and ignoring words that make you

glow reds and blues and indigos

is to

 
volunteer your head for the block.