repeated stipulation:
no mud, no lotus—as if
the muddiness of ground
were even worth
pointing out—as if
dirt were a bad thing
instead of all earthlings’
fundament and nurse—
as if The Umbilical
were some sort
fundament and nurse—
as if The Umbilical
were some sort
of hideous noose,
and not the source of all
warmth and nutrition.
But what's more:
is there any dirty word
or base body function which
doesn’t have its season?
doesn’t have its season?
Is there any blameless reason
whose antithesis didn't
whose antithesis didn't
play a precipitating part? So
of course a little unruliness
is the compassionate warrior’s
greatest weapon
when it's not even possible
do such a vulgar and
autonomic thing
as breathe in
and out again—and not
call it art.
call it art.
