(October 2021. Early decentralized poem, before I thought of the phrase itself. Just played a little line-for-line game in my notebook with my brilliant friend Mackenzie.)
Burnt tongue, jaw shut tight
Like only the music can speak.
When I get out of my own way
Who will be walking through?
This place is steeped in contraction
And I overflow my container
Superstitions urged me not to fly
Debating the body’s urge to try.
Beatin' Paths ~~~ The journey to the Great American Novel 