“Why do you write poetry?”

I feel the spindle brushing air
waiting for the cooing yarn.
I feel the skin of leaves
waiting to slough off the branches.
I feel the throat of the cactus
growling with the touchless wind.
I feel the heat of doors
drooling for a somber hello.
I feel the shade of the puddles
slouching until the splash.

I feel the toes of the clouds
pouting before the task.
I feel the arms of the anchor
hunkering before the goodbye.
I feel the limber paint brush
shivering before the blank nothingness.
I feel the coffee beans black
smiling before the crush.
I feel the subway’s eyes
fearful of the outside.

But, who feels me?

I feel the sizzle of the air as it passes through the tender birds.
I feel the brown blood of the earth as it drowns the worms when it rains.

But who feels the parts of me?
Who feels my hands heavy on the bed while my eyes trace the door frame?

I feel the spider webs waiting,
awake as spikes in a pit.
I feel the deer path,
weaving without effort up the mountains.
I feel the teeth of tin foil,
gnawing and grinning like a fool.
I feel the pedals on the bike,
praying for the last push home.

But who feels my heart when it opens red as wine to the strangers?
And who feels my feet fall so heavy that they feel like dropping asteroids with every step?

I feel the drawstring of the bow when it cries for the arrow lost.
I feel the pretzel legs of shoe laces,
crying out to be untied.
I feel the soft belly of the forest itching for a fire to eat away the unwanted scraps.

But who feels the trains booming in my head as the storms of my past flood my memories?

Who feels the creamy buzz when a kiss found my teenage years?
I hear the cracking smack of pinecones searching
for water where there are only rocks.

I see the scattering bats rolling in the mines, desperate for a darker deep.
I feel how the world pushes every mite and mouse into a desperate clawing trap.

But I can’t feel where my touch is going.

I sense the sky pulsing with a zest-  sweet as a newborn giggle before the pimples come.
I feel the orange sand dunes purring before the camels come to cross again.
I feel the hips of the lip stick, standing still and straight on the night stand before the midnight salute.

I’m here amongst the edges of a crowded cliff.
I feel the sharp edge of the mosquitos’ needle,
itching for some talented blood to tend to.
I feel the horn of the salt shaker, letting go for the meal.

Does anyone feel my DNA squeezing in my cells?

I feel the whisper of the soup simmering,
holding the stories of last vegetables.

I understand.
I need to share my world so someone can hear me.
I have no other direction.
I’ll collect
the humming murmur of the swamp
the chiding coughs of the sea
and the boiling cheer of the jungle
and then someone else can have them.

In the night, I place my words to stand for me,
My poetry will be the flaking petals of stars tickling the sky.
I will frame the unlimited sun behind my touching shadow.
The words will march slow with sparks on their tongues and brightness in their eyes.

I will share.
I feel the bricks thrown through the windows, begging for gills on their sides so they could flop for fun like fish do.

I feel the corners of the sugar cubes begging yes as they melt under siege from coffee.
And I will share it all with tea and beer and pleasure.
Soon, everyone will feel the hot lion roar, beginning in your ear like the subway cry, but descending in a cloud of echos that shows you something sublime in every inch you touch.
And I can give everything, and receive peace.
For there is no other direction.