'The Hands Of Children All Over My Motherly Body' Poem by Micheal Valencia

Grasping just to hold,
naive hands renouncing the recondite
equation which forms a material existence—
embracing simply the form which confronts its attention.
Expectant of grand things in triviality,
“Promotion” speaking as loudly as the mouse to the Titan;
fatuous minds performing herculean exertion
to create mass from the vapors and filamentary
images which pass through a nonsensical cognition;
glories and wonders assumed in the personage of the dustmite,
absconding from an unexpected breeze,
scrutinized by the young, brilliant spheres—
sagely in intensity. (Innocence Power
and Youth Gravity
held centrifugal, the physical self, maturing,
opposite emotional progress,
learning to be restless.)
Living the life which thrives just to be,
needless of the Feast,
expecting no more prodigious repast
than that
the swollen bosom of its Giver;
nestled upon the fleshy
erection of its nectarous subsistence,
brazenly domineering the turgid source which rushes euphoric
warmth throughout its tremulous figure,
hungry for consolation:
lackadaisically forgetting to plunder the world’s vaults of its
pleasurable excitements
(emphatic “no’s” to Desire’s sway and the elicited mitigation
resulting from impropriety) —
“Darling, ” “sweetheart, ” and the Pap’s Ambrosia
its only indulgences.