What if I removed the thief in his sleep from the freedom he was keeping from the slaves and the scattered graves, dug waist deep.
What if I reminded the spine on the crawling snake to stand upright and rise from the basket when the flute soared through the humid sky, deep in India.
What if I presided over a jury, judge and all, with a staff and then felt myself falling
like when pulled by the undertow
and was taken to the bottom of the sea
What if I did not fight, to be me?
The stolen glances of butterflies, scattered across the winds
where he blows like a cloud
waiting for me
to play air guitar
and put my gums in the freezer
stop yapping with clients
and play.
Another guy, one with a dark shock of hair
said he disliked post modern poetry
and I think that's what I am writing
but I try to pepper in reality.
I feel condescension sticking to my gums.
Why not ascend, like the snake?
Simply called by a sound.
