poem

eastbound and midmorning,
i’m running through the hills, in a sense,
but a better verb for what I do out there is
dance.
my body, three sixty spinning as I do the electric slide,
and my hips, they dip, into the land and
I bob my head, Martha Graham,
and kiss the back of my hand. I blow it west.
The trees are doused in glitter and
I John Travolta all over their branches,
pause for a moment, hold different stances
like the robot,
don’t you remember how it used to be?
the ground is muddy
these days
and on the downhills,
I call it moonwalking but really I’m just losing traction,
give me some Michael Jackson,
my feet slide, cut through the earth
as it gives birth
to the most true scent,
wet eucalyptus,
and here comes Prince,
my hand finds my heart
my hips find my spine
as I shakira shakira through the moss.
I square dance with the fog.
I am a compass,
I spin with blurred vision
but always know where I am cause
east, west, north, south,
here, right here is where i land
cause baby i’m earth-bound,
mouth like James Brown,
moving among the wild things
that each season brings
and you don’t see them feeling sorry for themselves.
remember? there is bass in the woods.
and unlike human song, it’s always dropping
synapsing your movement and popping
your arms like you got electrocuted
when was the last time?
you gave in?
you’ve already got your bearings
just trust the spin.