Let Me Be
for the Champ
First, I loved your body, perfection. Then I loved your spirit. Divine. Too proud, too beautiful, too honest for white men and their greed. You have planted your feet firmly on the roof of God’s mouth and, angel, I hear you vibrating with the Word. Your prophesies never lie, your poetry takes the blueness from my eyes, makes me fall in love forever with those dark forbidden lovers, those sexy brown almond eyes. Bhakti yoga training boxer, your sweat is semi-precious, one drop distills a Buddha’s smile. Mohammed, you are the mountain. Turn that human spine caterpillar, dance on wings of satin colors forever lightly, honey bee, your stinger as long as your right arm, flex that big black love muscle, Mohammed Ali, and let the people of the world cross-pollinate.
After George Sand
I found my cunt between clever parenthesis trying to explain itself. Men tell me quotation marks scar my body. They call me poetess, smiling. The very slightly stylized use of my clitoris telegraphs the Universe, creams adjectives in solitude. Let cigarettes suffice for breath. I think the moon bears her hermetic silence too well. She dares to laugh down at my shivering hopes for love, for life. Give me glorious illusions to sleep on my back porch, smoking fine cigars, gray suede boots, and my hair, cut it short. Remember me in gardens turning tea cups inside out. Dildoes melt in my hands. A liquid mouth no word could shatter bearing gifts of consonants sometimes. Cheap gypsy to the earlobe, my shadow cloisters only a rose, irreplaceable and red. You may meet me in cities where men play music on the edges of beds and knives, jazz to ease the nights upstairs, through cities of isolation, streets of busy despair. Coming out, I come like good news, I come to steal the sun, I come wearing love low on my brow, cocked to the side, the scandal, the flair, satisfies. Proud of my strong ribs I give credit to no man. Call back those goddamn prophets, once is enough for salvation, and empty tombs need no poetic winding sheets. Let me write, love, sugar sweet, my heart as rich and temporary as money. I put the stars to shame with my name my words, my life, my loves, my hair, cut short.