by Kay Renz

Can’t sleep 4:00 A.M. and
this morning up movement pricks.
While the rest of the other house dreams,
other world images roam the room.
I question how to write,
how to set aside reason, move
without critical eye to not
erase the word before it’s heard.
Language —
language is the mind exposing
within formality of form.
The strip-tease artist I
bump and grind my way to stage point:
a form of expression,
just another old art.
Gyrating, I tongue softly,
“I want to be a poem,
thrust my mind forward
back with the drum beat
pulse throb of word pressing word
like a thigh flash, fallen sash. I
want to dance naked,
be the breath pause
sweetened clause. I
want to titillate intercourse.”

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