InTellaches

Little bits 

and pieces 
of me are 
all under 
the ridges. 
Defiled and 
reshuffled by 
the tip of your hat, 
the flip of your lip, 
the whip of your smack, 
it was 
the print 
you left 
behind.

Adrift in 
the dust, 
you arise 
to surmise 
with the wind 
of your weight 
running from head to toe, 
the show with more glow, 
so damn profound 
as you sit down. 

The ego 
sits in 
the side 
corner 
pocket.

I multiply 
as you 
criticize 
every angle 
of my linear 
frame in time 
moving forward 
backward 
crosscutting to 
dissecting 
latitude 
with attitude. 
It is the 
circumference 
of the mind.

While I sit, 
pit I against 
a nursery rhyme. 
Like I’m a mime 
waiting to shine dimes 
going to primetime. 
Powering up 
the switch   
with lights 
that ignites 
the charge 
I make mine. 
Unique prints 
tapping the tips 
of nimble fingers 
I spit.

Heads of state, 
and delegates, 
raising flags 
locked on 
the victim 
or the crime. 
The science 
knows that is 
my fingerprint 
as I bleed

my fears

on 
every

line.