Dancing

It is beautiful
When every part of the body moves
When the legs shake from
Pushing up the weight of another body – pointed toes,
Arched foot, contorted
Gorilla pose like
Koko.
Or Couture.

Those of us who do not have
Every small muscle pushing out of our backs
Like a watermark map
Of intricate pully designs,

We do other things
Like
paint,
sing,
grow orchards
hold hands,
make instant noodles,
scribe nonsense.

Writers are ridiculous.

When they are suicidal
they cannot write -
they are too busy
Jumping off of buildings or chairs.

When they are pissed
It is OK to write -
I hear it is good therapy
And better than throwing
Your neighbor’s cat into your child’s
Swimming pool.

When things are sensationalized
To the point of tears
They cannot write -
Their participation in the arts
As over-excited drone receptors -
Is too disgusting
Even to themselves.

When they are happy
We
should not be writing
Within the confines of our
Carousels -

We should be running in the
Rain, snow, moon, comet
Swept outdoors
Dancing in the mud,
Painting on eachother’s
Wind-lit bodies -

And while it lasts,
This for which we are in hope,
We should be holding each
Other’s dew damp heads

And sleeping.

Until
The dreams between our eyelids
Crack open
To a state of utter speechlessness
in which every being begins to
kiss and fall down
and wamk and sing and cry
and rick-a-too-ta

Rick-a-too-ta

and write

and dance.