Clock Dancing (Michael Paul Ladanyi)

i don’t need a fucking mouth---
i have realized that speaking as animal spit
is like yellowed ropes around the neck,
sofa-spider basements.

shannon says that my back is brown vine splinters,
methadone eyes, a vacant urge to spin like clock-dancing---
long and raining warm.

he likes to hear the phone ring,
self-inflicted pain,
skirts and thighs,
men’s liquid arms quick like
bird stepping---

he was the first to show me
that my mouth was not a need.

in the pantry, cans of corn
and beans fill lower shelves,
they are blue copper-fruit---

they know that jesus is milk,
fuck-torn and crayoned.
shannon says that i am half of this.

i need a brush that writes
like living cardboard ladies
tasting hazel, bones capsized
in sun-china water---
because my mouth is no longer a fucking need.

(Copyright (C) 2005 Michael Paul Ladanyi)