Someday I'll fund a museum Where all works of art are for touching itchy fingers can sink into sculptures stroke grained canvasses hands can swell with contours corners where you can smell art if youchoose hug it roll it accross the floor bite if so moved dismember if provoked reshape make love to works of art with every surface of your body
Pieces that remain intact Will be retired.
Posted by Sonnie Bloke on :
I think it's called contentment. The absence of Drama. What my hands know, chilled, as they reach for your warm solid flesh. That hunger will be met. That heat is present.
Or wisdom. How tall grasses channel wind, root to tip, flatten to rain, sharpen dry to sun, do not dread withering. this ammused curiosity: What comes next? this certainty We will be equal to it.
Perhaps it's happiness. river sourced in me that flows for you, come boulders, flotsam, floodplains drought, come new tributaries. The water runs.
I name it wonder. Mornings of your sleep-child profile, hunched man-shoulders, tenderness spins a blanket, gossamer gray, out of my navel to wrapyou, corners of my mouth reach up and out like wings.
And, at last, I name it gratitude. For confident hunger of tall grasses along river that knows its source, for rain-soft blankets I inhale into my navel, for delight of not knowing what comes or why, but verything shifts like grass, like water and still my hands reach for the brazier of you, coals at centre tumbled red, I think it's called love.
For Chris, by Shailja Patel
Posted by Harbinger on :
Has Shailja got any new stuff coming out soon Keith? I think I've read Schilling Love about 100 times now.