FROM THE CENTRIFUGE TO THE HORN-TOOTING JINGLE

Taking refuge
in the centrifuge.

To submit
to be thus whirled
out of center,
out into the world,
to mix and mingle,
just as a house
to maintain warmth
needs both
its inner hearth
and outer layer
of shingles. . .

To ponder deeply
how to become
from a personal,
cloudy, fuzzy field problems
set asunder. . .

And then
become
maybe
so wild and free,
you get a little giddy,
loud and rowdy,

you feel so much
that the true you
is finally
peeking and emerging,
bursting through,
that you break out
with a giant voice that’s true,
that pens, then sings
your own horn-tooting jingle.

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