I have been fit

I have been fit for the universe, and fit and tried for my voice, and fit for my lovers, all.

I have been molded by the decadent wet breezes, by your decedent father (but not your decadent father), by the decayed and still decaying breath of the leaves in the topsoil.

I have been carved, carefully, intimately, by waters and aphids and knotted wooden fingers, in and out, so that I wax like pale dunes but feel as does solidifying tempered sap... how glorious does my skin feel! How marvelous it looks under flickering street lamps!

I am nature's best; for all of us, every one, has taken the push of the wind, the height of the tree, the beauty of the lower flowers, the low of thunder, and cocooned, all, into one beating, breathing being; we have in us the best of nature's ebbs, and leave her flows be to blossom and reach.

Do you doubt me? For I tell you, intently, that I know best; for every earthen whisper has been laid in us, and I have ravished them, temporally, every one.

I have been welcomed, been eyed, been Aye’d, and welcomed again, and encouraged to taste a platonic fruit with a more evocative juice… I have tasted it most, not all, but most, and confidently say the world tastes like we... you are the world, then, and I know it, and love you both as one.

And to you, friend, I whisper, close your eyes! Listen! And can you? The Mexican chicos on the corner have made music out of silver boxes, and add their pennies and tar-shoes to the sound, and do not whisper, but say louder, "Baila!" and while you feign deafness, your sit bones allude you and have discovered how to seduce your spine. In it, I say and see beauty, and dance with your consenting parts, and make it of the world.

And of spines? Who among us does not wish to be a savior? I ask you, for I saw you slice the spines from your books last summer, all of them. Each one you pulled, pulled as though it were an Olympian column made entirely of orange peel, and deigned to set the pages free, as your auds, like minted honey under your warm tongue, sssaid to me that the words of your world needed a flamenco, too. How you cried when they did not move! When they did not dance with you! While you slept, I then pulled out the sheets and spread them about your floor, so that your sleep might calm knowing the pages could breathe, as you intended. Your minted honey tongue was reward enough for me, and for the floor pages.

World! Reveal more, so that I may revel more! I have been temporaried by things not of you, my world! If I say I have not seen, nor heard, nor felt all your splendor, then, to you, I say that that it is only because you have yet to churn the soil round and pull up from your underbelly what more is to be seen, or heard, or felt.

I am the oldest atheist. Who could wish for more than what this world has set out on their back porch? Who could want deeper truth than what the steaming tree branches spell out against the anesthetized night sky? Who could ask what we are of who has seen a mother give birth, or a single blade of grass surface, gasping, among its sisters?

Which of us is not afraid to die? And which of us, who spent each day only watching the months run after one another with shoes untied and flies unzipped (only to return more boastful than ever, hand in hand with one another in their turn), would dare fear what we see? No, rather, we would laugh, and heartily, too! For what, if anything, is not beautiful that this world has given us? If death comes to all, then surely, the world has ordained it, and if my voluptuous mother creator has said so, then I will take off my shoes, unzip my pants, and chase death with the younger months struggling to keep up, and will surely return from it in the third cycle, breathless, ready for one more race.

The world is not my bed… though, in truth, I see everywhere places and cause to lie… and lie, I do... with you, for you are my mind's changeling... and though I have not seen you before, the flint in my teeth will not spark with surprise upon your arrival, for I have known this face, known this roughness, known the softness of your bottom lip and the resolute firmness of the top, and have willed you into being and will will you into my world bed.... and say, luminously, that these notches read more fittingly on a full sycamore post than a whittled balsam stick...
The ebb and flow of your lungs have taught your hips as much. To bear hips, with bare hips, and then over points of contention, contentedly, and up, and up, to lips of leaves, reaching over and up to mark one more notch, I say, world, Brava! You've done us well.

Have I oversweetened existence? Oh. Well, then, so I've done. Nothing left to do but throw more existence into the pot, to balance it all out, I s'pose. I leave that to you. I still have to shower and meet up with the kids down the block.