Beloved,
In what other lives or lands
Have I known your lips
Your Hands
Your Laughter brave
Irreverent.
Those sweet excesses that
I do adore.
What surety is there
That we will meet again,
On other worlds some
Future time undated.
I defy my body's haste.
Without the promise
Of one more sweet encounter
I will not deign to die.

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.

But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.

pressed against the cold bricks
outside the church,
she smiles around your lips,
her breath harsh on your face,
her scent compelling you with want;
you ravish her mouth,
thinking that maybe if you went deep enough,
you could stay inside her forever.
the drizzle comes to a stop,
and you hear nothing but the pastor saying:
Refrain from sin,
and He will let you in His Kingdom!

I can’t be delicate,
small, sad-looking and innerly folding,
my legs will never oragami-fold themselves
over my tired tired fat chest   .

I am blessed to be big, though
my *** is a curse, how it juts and forces
itself to be known by peoples’ eyes and
rudely introduces itself to chairs, knick knacks,

anything unfortunate enough to exist
within its gargantuan wake  .

I am blessed to be huge but small,
I am blessed to warmly ******* and spill
my flesh over everything I touch & taste;

I am forced to give myself up to
the world, to give my huge body up as
comfort to the multitudes of humans
I love and crave and want and dream up

because they will never find me small and cowered,
will never offer their bodies
to comfort mine, assuming instead that
my huge warmth can sustain its
own flame .

My own body can’t contain the
sad swells and lovely lakes that surge
and bash against its own hide  --- - ---

that’s why my stretch marks
leak and tendril their way
around my arms,
my belly folds,
my underloved thighs,

and I wonder why we both want
to tender my fire
to a low smolder
and let it fade out

do we
think that trees with thick
lush, curved and pink
foliage are somehow
whole-er
than trees with paperthin leaves?

my bark still craves
the sun, which sometimes
comes in the form
of human flesh

I have a fear
that one day
you see the real me.
Made of tender flesh
and brittle bones.
And you will leave
me for another.
Who is made of  muscle
and solid structure.