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Wednesday, August 09, 2006

2 feet

what is a painter
if not one who conceals
the raw white bitterness
of canvas

from hence 3 primaries
rainbows created
all to color and distort
true color of a page

a fault is replaced with a quick stroke.
art is an artist
who hides ideas
packed in
the entity


what’s in a decision

if you were
a serpent,
you would bite
at opportunity
of the largest mouse.

but you are not a serpent.
you are blind.
you will not
feel the difference
as a serpent’s flickering tongue.
you will bite the head
of a small mouse,
thinking it is the greatest option.

you are impatient.
you are crude.
your instant gratifications
will force you
to bite
a poisoned meat.

you will only die,
before you are a serpent

are manipulative
bite with rattles,
have difficulty with logic
breathe with emotion
hate to be alone
cry when men leave
stupidly wait for events to happen
instead of taking ideas
and forcing them to be events

some days
even as hard as i try not to be with all these
and try hard to defend all of this
it sickens me
that i am one.

never brought as large an emotion to me
as the sound
of two beloved boys
playing guitars on a Sunday morning

in the scrambling
for free breakfast,
makeshift, unidentifiable concoctions of burgers emerged.
and when my friends gleamed
with radiance,
as if such a feast,
was a celebration of some victorious win over the Roman empire,
it was this which brought me happiness.

notorious for neglecting classes,
the adrenaline of rebellion
did not pump my heart,
but the nervous twitching lip
of my equally mischievous accomplice
made me grin.

although my thighs
strengthened in their musculature from long hours
of walking streets with no definite destinations,
when i held the hand
of a teenage male
and our sweat bled into cloth
as rain,
i would laugh out loud with euphoria.

to be confronted with reports of disobedience
and lectured in phone calls and letters
on my “irresponsibilities” from the people
that had known me since childhood.

it was maximal
when i ran away from a life of
nights that lasted days,
the acceptance of me
by nomads like me,
and kisses of warmth.

and it was also ultimate
to know
that after it all
i could
“improve” myself
and gain respect

but i still miss the me of then.
and i still smile,
when i think of those days;
the happiest i had ever been.
judgement is
a presumptuous thing
not for
the sake of morality
but because
if we have only
seen 1000 angles
of life
10 000 may be
lacking or gaining
how many books
can a human read
and even
can centuries
of knowledge
know the
how do we
know anything
and how can
we judge
and do we?
we do.

as a river

is it possible
that my life
has already been lived
and breathed
to the extent of expression
which i have not yet mastered?
my poem
which i thought was MY POEM
is simply an introduction
to another geniuses words
which i deem original
still borrow paint from canvases
already dried
after reading
an illustrious
and enlightening piece of literature
i become depressed
and happy
to know i am not alone
but still to know
i am alone
and that geniuses
before me
have known this pain
and have expressed it well
gained immortality which i hunt yet to gain
is it not
“all relative”
and a perfect “om” ?
i do not know how i know it
or how i know that i do not know
but i know
i will be among them as
river. becomes. and becomes.
without understanding
how it knows this constant change

Brow of beast sat steadily,
Still wavered in reflection questioningly,
Was I a culprit or a saint?
In red lips was blood of life or stain?
My night a bedroom for mine thoughts,
Or house the tamer of my thighs?
This heir of dark was in me to take,
And plunge all good to evil’s fate,
My eyes saw not of nature’s scene,
But dreamt of nude men and lascivity,
The noble air breathed in my lung,
Capsized with intake of incense,
I stood aware of what I become,
But looked not back but to front of me.


weeps the bed of morning glories.
dew glistens as an obligation
from a tender breast ARISES a hardened soul
lost to CHORE.

dusts on the table brown.
as spices sweet never cease to smell,
the cloth of work is gray from wear. and
a skirt still hangs black as unused charcoal.

the Queen of colony
dislikes a worker’s potential grandeur,
so sits, with book and trimmed mustache.
watching bee become
busy with the task of being busy
and Queen soaks in information of words.

a hip surely must have no other purpose,
save the finality of a child’s pitter patter.
once orgasm as evanescent joy
now but a duty.

alas these endings never end,
and one path chosen holds another untamed.
I, will never wed a fate.
marriage was not meant for a woman’s brain


when i taste my blood
i feel close to earth
i feel real
as i see it gush out of the gap
this small kitchen knife has opened

i need to feel real.
because nothing else is
so i pour myself out

and leave this body to vultures

i am
appreciated for
a finished canvas
an aria sung
a spirit brought to being
through my dance
for my blunt poetic
for the love
i give to a child
in a hug
and still
shunned by all
through a fornication
even though
my piano
exhibits a soul
and my fellow
compose out of harmony
should i
or emulate relief
and enjoyment
out of sex
i am nothing
but a vulgar vat
of the putridity
of human acts
to me
and prose
maternal gratification
and yes
even sex

it is but one vision.
one experience
to be glorified for
and in
this element
so dear to me
mingled between
melody, color, and skin
why dear populace
cannot you see
that to me
this is all

brown shoes
pink shoes
red shoes
purple shoes
polka-dotted shoes?
of horrendous taste
bought at a yard sale
at a cheap price
which were not necessary.
price be cheap
we buy what we do not need

white shoes
gray shoes
my favorite black spiky shoes
2 feet

1 comment:

Ahmad said...

I have visited your photos website. You are the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen.