2-23-12

They say that it is unhealthy to love only men buried deep in the ground. Under all that earth for so many, many years. I say, well of course it is. I say, it is unhealthy sometimes to love anything .

Sometimes I can write things that make me proud. Sometimes the words come, from my rib bones, from my lowest vertebrae. My body forms them; they are a part of me. They are a part of me but I expel them, sometimes onto the paper, mostly onto my keyboard. I pull them out of my body, and in that I feel different things. I feel proud. I feel moved. I feel uncomfortable. I feel home.

Home is when you displace your rib bones.

To tell someone how deeply that current runs.

The incessant, unyeilding current of compassion.

The compassion of love.

The love that has become home.

It is all a cycle, all a circle.

And you.

You displace me. On a molecular level. Each molecule that comprises my rib bones. You fill the holes in my lowest vertebrae. (Are their holes in your vertebrae? I think there are holes in mine).

There are holes in my vertebrae, my rib bones have been displaced.

My tiny finger bones crunch underneath the weight of all this thinking about love.

"No one, not even the rain, has such small hands." -e.e. Cummings. (This quote crunches my fingers, fills up the holes in my lowest vertebrae, displaces my rib bones.)

There are other parts of my body that I could crunch, fill, displace. Why is it the bones that fascinate me so? Why is it the bones that feel so much more than the muscle, the skin, the sinew (How strange, silly, deadly is that word? Sin- new. All sins are new to those who commit them.)

I want to crunch, fill, displace you. Not in the way that it sounds. I want to leave a mark on your bones. I want them to be my bones, as well.

EXCELSIOR-

my hand in your hand

my bones in your bones

my veins in your veins

my spine in your spine