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Smoke Storms

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I was made to be outside like this,
with wild hair and clothes barely there
to better feel the love of the sky.
My skin was made to feel this wetness,
more cleansing than any drop of holy water
delivered by the hands of the Pope-
foolish Man for thinking
he can do better for the soul than walking alone
on a stormy night.
Bare feet over wooden bridge into garden
visited by no one
even in the day.
The other residents are content with their walls and
small worlds that drown out the best types of music-
makes outside all the more mine
to be as me as I please for as long as I want.
I want to tease the only men watching:
the kind who serenade to seduce the hearts of women-
frog princes in a contest no one will win
that leaves all of them unkissed and enchanted.
I kiss my hand after rubbing my arms in the jungle
of a giant green mane good at being noticed,
never gave its name or any other word,
just the moistness between its leaves.
See,
you’d think a plant would make a good lover, but
you’re wrong;
they’re too strong-minded and they never move
from their stance.
You can talk to them and plead with them
for just a chance of some reaction-
only to get silence like after Death steals a friend.
Plants are not good lovers.
All of my exes were like plants and
each came to an end because they stood still and
didn’t move me
in ways that mattered.
I need to dance!

Especially tonight
in this rain
with this mind that’s filled with smoke.

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