Sunday, February 06, 2011

Spitting Image
for D.B.A.

with what accumulates
in my mouth as well as in my mind
like water in a well, after waking up,
prior to getting out of bed

liquid filling my mouth,
filling it more and more,
with what I would not dare swallow
with what at times overflows

sometimes you wake
and it has escaped, has stained
your pillow case

instead of holding it, having it
accumulate and accumulate
between sleep and wake
between sleeping and waking
between being asleep and being awake

I suppose, daydreaming
or daydreaming, you might say
it occurs to me
or the possibility arises

to let flow out of my mouth
this liquid I let
accumulate more and more
until I can no longer contain it

until some accidentally spills
or I, by accident, swallow some
and I leap up, run to the bath room
to the hand basin/face basin
and spit it all out and with tap running
with tap water, wash it away
wash it down the drain

thought I had a while ago
was to, with this, paint your portrait
or to, with this, from my mouth,
spit your portrait out or not spit
but while there in my bed,
head upon my pillow,
upon its pillow case, release it
let it flow, form your portrait
form it automatically
with spit overflowing

do it with the freedom with which

Miro painted, made his art
with whatever occurred to him
or entered his mind
or entered his hand

similarly accumulated in me
similarly stimulating me
I could, with whatever emits
from my body, whatever fluids
whatever juices, along with ink
make poetry, make portraits of my baby,
of my lady, of the love of my life

nothing is too base, too grotesque
for what or who is heavenly
to transform

even spit from my mouth
even what I, when awake, spit out
can be transformed
as I have been since we met
and we merged

the earth has not been the same since
the universe was altered
when we set off or hit it off

or when I swung and missed

could kill for her or die for her
or I could have - could I still
could I anymore - would I any more

with your newly discovered
lack of commitment to inspire me
to spur me on

killed for you or died for you
still might not impress you,
might not get you to deeper
or to deepen commitment

on the boarder, on the fringes
of what I thought
was an affair between us,
shared between us
an affair we were sharing
were in together

I, up to my neck in it, drowning in it
you up to your knees,
intending to go back
or to go no further, not now

unless you fell in the well
like Uncle Lou: like I did

from whom am I
expecting response
satisfactory and adequate
from a small girl

is this not to court
disappointment, letdown

what I want of her, expect of her
only a woman can deliver
and not just any woman
only an extraordinary one
only extraordinary ones

what sort of woman
will this girl be
and when will she cross into
fully-grown-up land

will it be before this man
wanting a woman-
in need of one, is underground
is in the earth, is eating dirt

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written on Sunday, February 6, 2011
between 12:45 p.m. and 7:05 p.m.


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