It shoots out in jet engines,
and sometimes out of other odds and ends;
eresberes, as we say in Kristang;
a lot really ends up tending to depend
on what's going on inside;
not the heart, or muscles, or testicles,
or the big manly breasts and cheeks (and breastcheeks), no matter of what size;
but the story, the quality, the colour of the sunshine
that streams out, so welcomingly and willfully, when you ride
the rails of your psyche to whereever you were supposed to reside:
home. Somewhere in space and time
where things actually matter, and pots and pans actually clatter
when you send a superheated jet of some form of very exotic matter
and it hits, just squarely, in the eye
of the storm that lies in tatters.
Over where? Over the darkened waters
where you tried to let your fantasies drown.
You tried to make your prejudices into a crown.
Force of habit, though?
Not really. Not here, not now.
Now is how you learn not to be cowed,
and to take the horse by its horns,
the lion by its very dusky mane,
the tiger by his very pendulous tail.
Over ever more westward waters
one learns how to sail.
No posts