Dirty Clothes


Should I share words or wear them?

As I rummage through drawers Quickly glancing at each piece of a word folded neatly tucked beneath each definitive meaning,
I lift each one individually thinking which one I may wear or share out loud or discretely,
Figuratively speaking.

The words become materialistically sealed inside the false realness of a fabricated anatomical psychotic infirmary,
only to be revealingly pealed into an authentic antiquity of certainty.

I check the tag of each one for the precise size to fit the structure I have become.

Each vein and artery pulsating blood in the direction in which it flows,
Distributing words all throughout the body with an unknown exposition that grows.

There is a reason for words and our genetic make up.
You see words manifest our worlds.
They give us a place to wake up.
They give us that ability to think we think about something of conversation when we can communicate with a simple wink of humilitation.

Words are hung up and closeted or wore for display,
They are put away or constantly  being advertised to express what they say.

Words can be bought,
just as they can be traded or sold, for something new and improved or something old,
given as a disease not to catch but to be caught.
Maybe like a contagious sneeze? Blessings to be given for an internal eruption resulting in spitting spit of germicidal germs concocted up in anti-body building combustion.

What’s that on your shirt?

Puke stain from a slain name to make way for an easier place to stay and pay for the paved paced planned maze,
we walk straight with our shoes unlaced,
tied tight for the prayed sake of our souls sweat soaked up in our socks,
so the un weighed weight can wait for the day there’s no need to strain,
play fake from the molded clay made ash tray,
that holds butts that are ashed from stinky finger carcinogenic cellular space,
that race to ride the save my life wave,
in-to today’s present day,
far from the sea shore that’s stitched with a suture of past and future,
but never laid drown to rest their head in a teary dirt grave bed of un sure,
un certain of certainty of a ghost un seen but internally met,
introduced by a shake of the hands, hand in hand,
shook hands,
meeting hands,
touching together,
prayed hands,
energetic exchange,
mistaken without a glance,

all by the same stained vomit, strained of pain hurled in dance to sway in happiness away from forever made to stay thrown up,
one way down,
with no choice but to splatter contents of nakedness,
un clothed,
haunted by being smothered in a basket of dirty waste,
waiting to be washed and cleaned, by water, detergent, and softener, spun, spinned,
spin, spin,
rinse, rung, and rinsed,
hung to air dry or heated,
still spinning,
boxed in,
completion of just another cycle, made to be wore, worn, given gave, or bought,
hanger hung,
folded in a drawer or closeted in a closet,
shelved for the moment to live again,

with sleeves, sleeveless, hoody, zip up, sweater, slacks, shorts, leggings, or jeans…

What does it all mean?

Unclothe the soul by living faithfully liberated, felt and seen clean…

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