what should the body be but a tool?
an ends to a means, a pausing and grating solution
for a great many problems,
causal relationship to jealousy and rage.
shall i be held back by a negative aspect,
shall i be propelled forward by good enough cleavage?
oh ridiculous. oh sublime.
when kant dreamed of the female form
he meant a mountain, for keirkegaard a perfect ellipse,
and marx a single floating feather.
(all are wrong.) oh ridiculous.
the mary tyler moore of ethics, the lucille
of seeking and finding: it is trial and error
and it is funny! it is the winding story and the german
bildungsroman come alive,
for the modern woman to see her toes
is miracle enough. where grape vines meet the earth
maybe in california, maybe in italy,
somewhere under the sunshine is a table
set with round, purple globes.
they stain when you break them,
they shriek when they bleed.
and the wine that drips between fingers,
coalesces and dries in the webbing,
sticky and sour and dark
(was your skin already brown or did it always glow like that)
oh ridiculous, this obsession with melatonin.
fine, lay it down, pick a bed,
pick someone else's, not your own!
pick an adventure, pick up a book, pick
serotonin and the preciousness of sexual desire.
what should the body be but a tool?
silly, to try to make a narrative out of it.