18292, thylias moss Posted by rgv, Mon Feb-13-06 09:33 AM
"TORNADOS"
Truth is, I envy them not because they dance; I out jitterbug them as I'm shuttled through and through legs strong as looms, weaving time. They do black more justice than I, frenzy of conductor of philharmonic and electricity, hair on end, result of the charge when horns and strings release the pent up Beethoven and Mozart. Ions played
instead of notes. The movement is not wrath, not hormone swarm because I saw my first forming above the church a surrogate steeple. The morning of my first baptism and salvation already tangible, funnel for the spirit coming into me without losing a drop, my black guardian angel come to rescue me before all the words
get out, I looked over Jordan and what did I see coming for to carry me home. Regardez, it all comes back, even the first grade French, when the tornado stirs up the past, bewitched spoon lost in its own spin, like a roulette wheel that won't be steered like the world. They drove me underground, tornado watches and warnings, atomic bomb drills. Adult storms so I had to leave the room. Truth is
the tornado is a perfect nappy curl, tightly wound, spinning wildly when I try to tamper with its nature, shunning the hot comb and pressing oil even though if absolutely straight I'd have the longest hair in the world. Bouffant tornadic crown taking the royal path on a trip to town, stroll down Tornado Alley where it intersects Memory Lane. Smoky spirit- clouds, shadows searching for what cast them.
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