Joseph Wilbert

Ginsberg, You Horndog

              Uncle Walt juggled my thoughts until they became bruised bananas on a kitchen table, and he reminded me that they still taste succulent.  I fell in love with him, and I wasn’t afraid. 

            That morning, my body heat glowed under the sheets curvaceously.  That morning I became a believer. A sinner.  My inner thoughts bare and beneath me, I felt the lotus. 

            There is no action, just reaction, so no one can be guilty for any of the mucky tragedies and shallow dangers of this world.  We can only bloom out of the black and blue when the morning breakfast is ripe, and our minds still wander from the night before.