poetry is purity

—not aligned with the plots and justifications of the short story

But instead—

The pure pump of blood

Inky, flamingo-colored, without thought,

vibing off the chemicals of the mind

the streak!

(write it, type it up)

Whether the chemicals are in-born or huffed

The pure gasoline screams

—of Serotonin, endorphins, what-not

(the poet is not a scientist)

Simply interpreting the vapors

The ether, the ghost-tails flitting

The Natural History of genetics

(I am not my father, but without him, what should I be?)

Flip the I Ching

and do not ask questions