Sore Dove, Kind Dove

I am

resisting

, dancing to Books

I am channeling. Procreating.

Progressive positive creation.

Transformation. Calories are burned when eaten by my cells to maintain my body temperature to keep me alive, countless chemical reactions, exerting energy. The sun cooks life and I eat it and it comes back out of me and I help new life grow, microscopically or by moving my body and moving materials. The biological is self-sufficient. The intellectual is fed by the sociological and historical. My body could survive, but without other people and constant effort I have no life.

I need to read.

Recreation. Distended spinal cord. Spinal curve.

Bubbly after birth, dusty coffee beans, crying tom boy, seeping flesh wound, cantankerous grandmother.

It hurts. Not that bad. Ain't so bad... Stupid exercise and driving a car and riding a bike and walking on feet and sitting up straight at a computer and blinking in the sun and looking at the ground and semi-consciously cracking my knuckles and my neck.

And talking and talking and talking and listening and thinking and dreaming.

Why yes why yes why yes.

Complete and rightful and accepted.