I look in the mirror everyday
And say
'You are beautiful and amazing in every way'
To keep your mean thoughts at bay

And then I get to school, just like every other kid on the shelf
And I forget what I had already told myself

I see you
Hear you
Say I am not worth living space
And I smile
Because everyone thinks I don’t care
But inside
You ripped a hole

One day
I’ll look in the mirror
After hearing you yet again
And write on the glass
'Here’s your space back'
And put on the tight necklace
Hanging from the ceiling
Watching the light leave my eyes
Because I stopped trying to keep your mean thoughts at bay

Always put a smile on my face
Under every circumstance
These wonderful children
I've been blessed to be around
So much they've taught me
Mostly, love does not always need words.

I love the smell of coriander
And cardamom roasting in the morning
Coffee and cinnamon scattered on the floor
We share our laughter with the water
These plants are tender
As your fingers gather medicine
From the yard
We tie them up and bring back art
From its repository
We are sharpening our hearts like knives
And watering our minds
Gardens pop up everywhere she walks
Humble hearts make
Burning arcs throughout the sky

Humble hearts leave trails
Of burning arcs
Whenever they pass you by
When time is borrowed
From the present
It's a gift from heaven
If we are born unperturbed
Then how is it we learn
To act as if we are too old
To receive their love again

Imagine I’m just a voice. A voice without a body. So now you have to ask, where is the voice coming from? Imagine you don’t want to ask where I come from. You don’t want to accept the more challenging questions of hearing a voice from a vacuum. So you accept that I must come from a body. Now imagine what my body looks like. Let’s start from the deepest layer, where it all begins: Poprocks. Sprinkles. Skittles. Pebbles. All the sugary grit underneath. Candy bomb flavor, sweet like carnivore blood. Sweetness, the start of my body. Then we get to thinking about bone, soft as sponge, wet as electric posts during a typhoon, breakable under natural tragedy. But blameless. Sugar and bone. Then veins: uncut confetti. Rainbow spaghetti. Canals of bloodspeak, channel of time, of heat, of elixir. So Sugar. So Bone. So Vein. Then you have the heart, made of chocolate and pounded crickets, plus the corpse of queen bees. The hive emptied their wombs to give you your sugar, and they go to your heart to die. Their resting place is your alive, the miracle machine protecting the tether between sane, sedated and over, ended. So now we have Sugar. Have Bone. Have Vein. Have Heart. Imagine the alternative. All those are lies. I’m just a voice. A voice without a body. Where is the voice coming from? Or you can always go back to the body, even if you don’t understand what it’s made of. Not yet. Sugar, Bone, Vein, Heart. Vigor sown, slain — depart. Body, I butcher, loan for shame to start. Consider the voice is alone, but alive, and the world completely dead. The voice lives to tell its perfect heartaches, the contortions of the body struggling to be itself turned into vibrations, sounds, moaning, exhalation. I’m just a voice. I’m just a body. I’m just words shifting between multiple properties and materials. Moving fast, then slow, then turning invisible and visible. Until you accept that I am and stop looking for where I am, what I mean.

When I'm excited, I turn young
and cry wine blood, in my tongue
bitter and slick and arousing
like the bleak colors of international
pain. I wear a necklace forged from
the calves of men from the moon,
I invite moaning thunders in my room.
I am perplexed. Why did I waste my
youth pretending I was old. Why didn't
I offer my body as springboard for parasites
to court the song of decadence from
between the slippery crotch of mountains.
I am now with age and yet without age.
I've been seen. Touched, too, and combed
and stretched and smote to coarse powder
now riding the wind where we go off violining
down the perilous slopes of people's
roofs. Time, take me back to a place I
didn't know was waiting for me.
Time, take me back to fix the failure
of language. I know. The past is a cemetery
of spasms. I know. The present is a heartburn
in progress. I know. Only in the future
can I see the work being done.

My boy
stick your tongue out
even if no winters
could ever arrive here.
Don't wait.
Come and go
As you please.
Earth is a hotel room
of strangers
rehearsing abandon
with ease.
When you get cold,
bet on me.
I can lay
my body down.
Fitting to yours
like crooked teeth
biting the ridges
of a saw.
I promise, it's
a soft bite.
Trust, that's all.
And I'll try my best.
But please.
Don't ever ask,
Are We Here

I loved the way his ****
made me feel in the midnight,
how its strong instrument made
me want to cuddle and caress
its blazing cityscape, how its
supreme existence stretched
in the air like a beautiful rainbow,
like a scintillating skyscraper.
His breathtaking thickness
moving my body in various places,
my brown skin all sweaty and covered
in his tantalizing pleasures, my eyes
bulging, lips wanting, longing to be
a strong syllable pressed against
his pulsating *****, to stroke
its hard surface with my hands,
lathering it with spit as I ******
the deepest layers of it’s appealing
world.  And I wanted to take in
everything from the depths of his
exuberant head to his majestic *****,
luminescent literature I could fall
in love with and never stop
reading, a glorious city street
filled with numerous masterpieces,
riveting attractions, dizzy stoplights
shining bright colors, deep definition,
notorious nonfiction, jamming basslines,
heavenly equations, and sophistication
gravitating towards higher frequencies.  
His trigger flaming **** reigns supreme
throughout the nation, the birth of an
astonishing king bringing funky vibes
across jazzy constellations, amplifying
drums rocking and rolling away, lost
in the good times, lost in the diamond
language soaring in the sky, all timeless
escapes, swaying rhythms, sound movements,
islands of the brightest desires where artistic
creations shimmer like a fascinating fireplace.
And all the electrifying energy reaching
incandescent galaxies, pouring sweet nectar
out from the fountains of boundless love,
the smooth ******* erupting, crushing,
luscious, smoking soul of jumping
engines, poetry of passion, infinite,
sensual, meaningful, phenomenal
patterns reverberating in Saturn.