Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I never write for the glory of a full stomach
but I do like to regurgitate old lunches that bind
me up, my inner doctor knows that high cholesterol
impedes the neural pathways that can make you fall

on your face, so I purge the words that come to me,
the notions are often ammonia for dirty windows
streaked and covered with of a lifetime of city bus exhaust
that messes with your mind

it's easy to get lost, stuck in a blind canyon of repetition
the echoes deafening at times, so we pitch our tent
wait for the sun to come up over the crest so we can see
how to untangle the metal rings in need of a little magic

writing separates the concentric loops that cry for freedom
right before these eyes that scrutinize the sleight of hand....
poetry unweaves solid steel bands til they stand alone
giving me hula hoops that no longer clank together

to spin around my hips
to twirl around my neck like a giddy child
hoops to be tossed into the air, caught behind my back, hoops
snapped with deliberate reverse rotation so they hit the ground

with a cleansing orbit
that throws the perspiration of doubt
from the revved up circles... bringing once-optical illusions
across the pavement in hi-def-slo-mo-surround-sound....

back, into my outstretched hand