There is a joy in fullness

and right now, I feel so full of wind

and fire and words

I could blow away at the tiniest breeze

so hold your breath ladies and gentlemen

I need to stay here for a while

just for a few minutes

I want to tell you about the poetry

I’m holding in here.


When I sit still I can feel everything

I can feel the air touching my skin

I can feel my clothing against my flesh

each tie of my flesh unto my bones

and if I stop breathing for long enough

I can even hear my blood

sifting through my veins

in an ever cycling stream of red

that has never ceased to flow

no matter how much of it I bleed

and I have bled quite a lot recently…


Skin is a strange thing.

Skin is like paper—

it hold us, supports us

like paper holds poetry in the form

of ink

like the sounds that come from

my throat vibrate and hum

until they become something that

you can hear and recognize

and each separate word is attached

to make meaning

and meanings are strung together—

what would it be like to peel away our skin

in so many thin layers

one by one?

I shall die before I know!


And even stranger than skin the eyes

the ears the tongue and the nose—

without even one of these

how would our poetry change?

In a blind world, there cannot be darkness

because there is no light

and even the metaphorical meaning


In a deaf word,

what is the use of silence

if one cannot hear screaming?

Or music?

Without our noses

could scents bring on disgust

and peace?

Would the smell of our mother’s kitchen

mean anything to us?

In a tasteless world

would we still care

to explore a lover’s mouth

so intimately?


I am so full

that my skin can barely hold it in

but this is lovely

it is a burden I like to hold—

all this feeling

all these senses

this pain

this pleasure

it is mine.

and I will speak it as long

as people have ears to hear.

I will write it as long we

are born with eyeballs in our skulls.

I will draw patterns in the darkness

and speak in soft caresses and


when all other senses fail.

Poetry can be held by anything.

It can balance on the thinness

of a single sense.

A single feeling.

A scent.

A taste.

A sight.

A sound.

A touch.

Explore them all.

They are what makes poetry


The End

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