wall of Intensity

the old bone
in my closet
like a virgin gathering dust
or like an inflated body part
developing rust,
never walked naked in the winter.

but it saw an artist develop the blues
on a hot sunny day
when he couldn't choose,
his dagger tongue jabbing in and out,
injecting a cannibal kiss
and a monumental shout.

he could be seen sitting on a cold cliff all alone
holding in his hands a life-engendering stone:
it served as a counterweight to keep him in balance
when the winds came up
like the front paws of an overly-excited pup.

below the cliff, at the dawn of another sweet day,
a wall of Intensity blocked his way
when he elevated his arm,
trying to throw the stone away.

the old bone
in my closet
as reflective as a Puritan on a rock,
even though that door has a formidable lock,
can sometimes be seen smiling under an old sock.