On My Writing As Thick

Poundcake comes to mind. Sweet, dense, enticing.

Sometimes more is more,

and mystery, not mastery, is the name of the game.

I’m here to produce, something about connection, maybe.

My life is thick with it, that I can ensure.

It may arrive anywhere, nowhere, not place specific,

which is why I must journey.

Step by step,

bake the sorrow out of my bones

so I can feel something radiant within me

that seems already to peek out for people

while I share care.

Ripples of steadfast rock ringing around behind,

so you know there is something solid to back you up.

This might just be a condensing of every past and present version of you.

You and you and you and, yes, you.

Must be full because I am full.

Healthy, wealthy, wise satisfaction that you have set it up this way.

Must be thick because I am thick.

There is always so much good and bad and silent and waiting in between.

Never bragging, but knowing, say it again,

more is more,

in the first life.