YOU CAN’T DANCE TO IT (OR) DAY LATE HENRY MILLER B-DAY POEM

 

There isn’t

quite a rhyme

or rhythm to it

 

but it speaks the tongue

of the soul

 

spitting out “ha ha” images

of liquid prose

in spurts of volcanic lava

 

and consciousness rising

as words on a page

begin a mental dance

 

the challenge is issued

and the man steps up

to the plate—

take a swing at the ball

 

the electricity of word

speech elevating soul

currents of rapid fire

invective

 

it invades

permeates the inside

perplexes and amuses

 

yes another trip

to the Tropic of Capricorn

has warmed the heart

and fired the soul

 

until what you get is

a quintessence

and a few words left spoken

and many more unspoken

 

12-27-95

 

 

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