Through My Feet

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I feel like taking out the middleman.

Why do I need translation?

Why do I need transcribing?

I sit here, mired in my words

in due course they will

pull out their mud-sucked feet

and move on.

Something is squeezed out of the mud

the middle man races to capture it in a net

I feel like taking out the middleman

scraping the muck off my boots

and dancing.

 

I will dance all the dances in my head

I will dance all the dances I don’t know 

stomping wet, oozing puddles

dance myself dizzy.

I translate myself through my feet

I yell phrases that matter only to me

I translate myself through my feet

I spin

I am silent

I collapse.

 

I don’t need to be lifted up

I don’t need to be cleaned off

I will whisper my words to water 

that works its way through gaps in the trees.

The middleman would smooth, tame, mold me

into shapes that are soothing to him.

I am not here to soothe

I am not here to blend 

I am here to whisper my words to water

to the trees, to the mud, to the ooze.

 

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