poet wears a girdle

[joel]

(I tried to post this before, but I think I messed up. Sorry if it's here twice.)

Not down to earth
and not birthed is
worth (as I know
worthy: so tough,
though something soft).
Worthy coughed, sick—

oft I offered ideas
and frequently I fostered dreams:
new definitions for damned, endangered worths
and new concepts for concrete status symbols
because worth turned wasted, rotten
and dull— turned demon status quo.

What you want? Baby, I got it.
You want what, baby? I got it.
You got what, baby? I want it.
What baby got it? I want you.
Baby, what got it? I want you.
Baby, I want what it got you.

So many people get sliced up on glass shards
trying to be good Samaritans,
trying to clean up where they think a headlight mess is
and trying to heal a bloody wound they think shouldn’t be in discomfort;
and they think the glass is clear and being clear brings them down to earth,
but nothing’s more earthy than pain; even God didn’t (doesn’t) escape it.

He lifted up a small small branch again
like wind had scattered leaves and twigs upon
his path (and they: discomfort to his feet)
and bore his branch away from where had been
a garden yard too clean for trash. And dawn
arrived: a new day good and clean and sweet,

a Sabbath morn.
Worth is born when
worn and wasted
life is tasted
new and rested,
newly defined.

[iblieve]

Wow, my new favorite by you. "C"