Like men, from dust and clay she is born.
By men, her face and delicate form is made,
Through heat and glaze and Water she’ll soon scorn.
A fine novelty, A porcelain maid.
On her crown are luscious locks of mohair,
Adorned with rosettes, by masters no doubt!
And glass eyes tell the secrets she can’t share
For her lips are in an eternal pout.
Velvet and lace conceals her nakedness
Away from a stranger’s unwelcome gaze.
And this Belle who looks alive, is lifeless.
A sleeping beauty born by the fire’s blaze.
Yet a doll is not unlike a real man.
Both are puppets, Each to a different hand

the girls in the back
of the local pathetic
laundrymat
(where nothing,
none of my things,
comes out clean)
speak ugly slavic.
their loads must be light
as they're only half dressed.
I put my clothes,
all I own,
except the one's on my back,
in five dryers
and go sit
on the paint-peeled
two-tone maroon
bench in front.
today's heat is indefinite,
and I wonder if someone
has stolen my
soap and basket yet.
this is downtown,
the turf occupied
mostly by addicts and foreigners
and the rich,
the richer than me,
meander lazily in and out
of bars and salons.
the beautiful plump brown skin girl
I've been falling in Love with
has straddled her bike and left.
she didn't even see me
smile at her.
now there's the asian man
stereotype, smoking incessantly
like me.
who spends most of his time
daydreaming of some other life.
his thousand yard stare sees nothing
and I'm hungry, but I won't eat
the restaurants are all white owned
and nothing is good or cheap.
there's garbage everywhere
and no one seems to mind.
when my pencil stops moving,
terrible writer's fear
I'll never have another thought
worth writing or bought.
time to fold up
and maybe scrape that
marines sticker off
the back of my truck.

I was a poet, a healer and a woman
once
a dreamable woman
who got behind his eyes

I learned about flying
too

I still dream about flying

so ****** pragmatic these days

Afraid to write

Afraid to fly

He said my wings
really stoked the fire
once

And now I remember
why I am afraid to fly

Little brown eyed girl,
With brown short ***** curls
And dark skin that you
Have not learned how to love yet.

I speak to you.

Little brown eyed girl;
Already jaded
By a world that from birth,
Has declared you unlovable
Just because you look like you.

I tell you, that is a lie.

Little brown eyed girl
With strength in your bones
And love in your heart
So much so that the little boys
All run away.

I say that any man who cannot love you as you are does not deserve you.

Do not be ashamed;
Of your dark skin,
Of your brown eyes,
Of your short ***** mud-coloured hair,
Of your thick thighs,
Of your stretch marks and scars.
Little Brown Eyed Girl
You are perfect, just as you are.