not yet

not yet

day after day of amusing dismissal and diligent awareness
are a constant reminder of a potential invocation
of my muse.
or an untouchable face
on some days I can grip with both hands.
the remaining stored scents sit on my brain’s bone branch
heavy like iron, pungent like a fermenting memory.

which seems best?

every touch is a torturous tingle, a skin quake
every aftershock reverberates
through blood rivers, lip mountains, marshes of flesh.
a flood will recede
only after it has left its mark
on the trees.

forget forged investigations, framed in right and wrong
mother culture’s velvety cloak covers the thorny thickets
of what you really want.
traverse what matters
pseudo explorer.
for you are no traveler.

not to me.
not yet.