Housecats With Leopard's Skin

Babies cry the same in every language:

With an unexplainable emptiness each of us feels when we lose our umbilical cord--

Pre-Freudian castration anxiety: the unisex version.

We hide in corners to avoid self-imposed eye contact:

Nobody puts Baby in the corner,

Except of course, 

For Baby.

You can time travel as far back as fifteen hours, but you'll always run into yourself:

Minds are not spotless or eternal,

We're all housecats with leopard's skin,

And we still fall the same!

You watch, I'll land 

on 

my 

feet 

every time,

in inverted, optical illusion-flavored realities,

Where all we can wonder is

"Do horses still feel the same 

when their skin rashes over into monochrome parallel lines?"

They still run,

Until they're tamed and mounted.

They still run,

Until somebody names one of them "Baby."

Reality is cultural,

Personality is an ideology,

Theories are fiction without a protagonist,

And insomnia is always loneliness's predecessor.

GINSBERG WAS WITH CARL IN ROCKLAND, BUT

I AM WITH YOU IN SEATTLE!

Minds are not spotless or eternal,

But they all bleed the same!

And the heart is the mind's aborted baby 

that somehow found a way 

to beat--

WE ALL BLEED THE SAME!

...and now you've got me,

You've really got me.

Poetry is a language that's found in texts in the hearts of the people you love,

That are found in texts in the hearts of your poetry.

I'm with you in Seattle,

Where we both shake the same.

Reviews

[_mal]

Those first two lines stoned me. That first stanza could have been a poem on it's own. Amazing, harsh, understandable in so many different ways.

I'd like to come back and read this a few times before I say anything about the rest, the way you write is very unique and personal.