An Old (Testament) Prose Poem

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We’ve been Inter-coursing around, with why some want to “Lord It Over”, since Adam’s Rib decided to Pearly White that Golden Delicious. And once treed, we fear higher ground. Laid low, we whisper up, a local language, riffing in neighborhood punctuation, with the accent on block by block conceits.

Making myth, of the original mischief, we make material the first spit shined shibboleth: quick to lose its luster to the tongue wag, the tongue lash, the talk back, to talking down-but never listening until the blood flows and it all goes… Feudal.  Then, once again, we have to resort to the necessary rewind. Or, as I have taken to call it—“The Forbidden Fruit Loop.”

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