moebius, cast, expanded

with my feet
I patch the streets
of this frayed city,
with my eyes
I spin strands
of words to embroider
the beauty of its decay
on the fabric of my mind.

I'm menstruating and
as my womb wanes,
I contemplate what else
needs help to reincarnate.
sometimes I can't decide
if humanity should be saved.

listen to the noises created by voices
raised in contempt of what's become
of this over-complicated world.
when do the idle sounds
morph into ideas with more
than curled fingers,
and expand into the corporeal
as more than a raised fist,
but perhaps as an extended hand?

proverbial, we sit in the pot,
the water will get hot,
we'll argue about the temperature,
but get out we will not.
decisively childless,
I can't help but mother
Earth and her offspring,
but damn if we aren't the asshole teens
of creation.

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play;
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake;
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel,
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
again return.)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy
my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth,
and the Earth is dirt;
so commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten,
what will become of my memory?
what will be forgotten?
sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean.

I've been selfish with my language arts,
using audiences as my confessional,
and here I am again with more sins;
but Father Reader and or Listener,
I want to go deeper than my last lover
when I call myself out.
let me do the verbs I use
or I curse myself with hypocrisy.

there's hope in the message
that I feverishly relate.
here's some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push, when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe,
and so are you.

let me do more
than hear you
if this propaganda
is well received;
language and art
can be good magic
if well conceived.
take my words,
my eggs,
you supply the seed;
together, we'll become pregnant
and propagate,
with nothing but good deeds.
blind optimism, yes, this may be,
but to affect change we must first believe
that we create our own reality,
that everything is within our own ability,

if we start with small things,
and then proceed.