When your vocal codes
Turn from a piccolo to a tuba
And all you can do is to feel the weight
Of the descending testicles
And a little fertile spurt of hairs
In all the right places – even wrong
And you’re stuck making sense
Of this anarchy of little emotions
Making a cacophony, a racket inside
And you’re caught in heart currents
That stump you heavy, a jerk here and there
And a little device that wakes up in dreams
And wets your pajamas, and you start to
Wonder why excreta had turned cheesy
And this period passes with impunity
A little inebriated in hormones
And a lot less in control of all tangibility
Like the tall girl in a shawl
That makes your heart race. And you realize
At the end, you have come out of your cocoon
And beautiful wings will carry you now
To a gendered world, where nothing makes sense
And through fogs of infatuation, you find security
Of when rods and cones ensnare beauty to beholder
And trappings of fiber, inculcate a little desire
When head and heels lose their bearings
And make handstands. And one feeling
Approximates to the brink of a palpitating chamber
That only knows how to expand
To accommodate volume.
