I was thinking of how the body works,
where it might store emotions,
some chamber beneath the ribs
waiting like an ooze to rise
through the stomach and into
the heart, or as ammunition
loaded into the throat
fired upward for the eyes
to relay to the universe what
the mouth can't quite explain,
its brutish grunts and mumbles.
There's a cheapness in speech
even words can't resolve.
I was thinking of how the body doesn't work
at all: the brain's love affair
with habit and denial;
the circus of flesh; the simple fact
that existence is mistake
after mistake after mistake
strung together into a faulty
apparatus called the body.
Joseph Lambert spends his time staring through large glass windows into the curved belly of the sky wrestling thoughts into poems, then suffering mild panic attacks due to lack of adequate pen and paper. Somewhere in the muck, buried deeply of course, is the rightly correct word.
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