The photographic chamber of the eye
records bare painted walls, while an electric light
lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;
such poverty assaults the ego; caught
naked in the merely actual room,
the stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.

Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?

Twenty years ago, the familiar tub
bred an ample batch of omens; but now
water faucets spawn no danger; each crab
and octopus -- scrabbling just beyond the view,
waiting for some accidental break
in ritual, to strike -- is definitely gone;
the authentic sea denies them and will pluck
fantastic flesh down to the honest bone.

We take the plunge; under water our limbs
waver, faintly green, shuddering away
from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams
ever blur the intransigent lines which draw
the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact
intrudes even when the revolted eye
is closed; the tub exists behind our back;
its glittering surfaces are blank and true.

Yet always the ridiculous **** flanks urge
the fabrication of some cloth to cover
such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large:
each day demands we create our whole world over,
disguising the constant horror in a coat
of many-colored fictions; we mask our past
in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit
can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up
like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise
on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap
navigates the tidal slosh of seas
breaking on legendary beaches; in faith
we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail
among sacred islands of the mad till death
shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

If I crossed the street I would've been in the district with all the black kids
I begged my mom to take me there.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't have gotten IB
I wouldn't have gotten the prestige
That I thought everyone deserved
Saving me almost a year of college
And money like a scholarship.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't, as much, question my identity.
I wouldn't be single and question my beauty through white eyes
I would learn how to answer questions in class without feeling my white peers lying their eyes on me to see if the black girl could get it.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't be the only black girl in my classes.
If I crossed the street I wouldn't have to feel like MLK day was my job to announce according to my substitute teacher.
Because you know what week it is! Well of course you know girl.
If I crossed the street I would've been with my black brothers and sisters
Rather than trying to find my black experience in my white friends
But I didn't cross the street.
Maybe it took a bit longer to learn to love my black because of that.
But today I love myself
No matter what border I reach
And who disclaims or proclaims my authenticity.
I love my black self.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to cross the street

Man.  Sweetest Saviour, if my soul
  Were but worth the having,
Quickly should I then control
  Any thought of waving.
But when all my care and pains
Cannot give the name of gains
To Thy wretch so full of stains,
What delight or hope remains?

Saviour.  What, child, is the balance thine,
  Thine the poise and measure?
If I say, ‘Thou shalt be Mine,’
  Finger not My treasure.
What the gains in having thee
Do amount to, only He
Who for man was sold can see;
That transferr’d th’ accounts to Me.

Man.  But as I can see no merit
  Leading to this favour,
So the way to fit me for it
  Is beyond my savour.
As the reason, then, is Thine,
So the way is none of mine;
I disclaim the whole design;
Sin disclaims and I resign.

Saviour.  That is all: if that I could
  Get without repining;
And My clay, My creature, would
  Follow My resigning;
That as I did freely part
With My glory and desert,
Left all joys to feel all smart——

Man.  Ah, no more! Thou break’st my heart!

It hurts when it ends.
When everything you have ever needed,
decides it no longer needs you.

When it ends, it's the beginning you think of.
That first memory of it -
a precious bliss;
like sunshine, after a storm.

When it begins, it does not say when it'll end.
It never disclaims the pain you'll go through.
It promises happiness, and joy.
It promises forever.
And when it ends, it's the storm that is forever.
A storm that floods your insides with an eternal agony.

For, when it ends, you wonder;
how can this end -
when it is everything you have ever loved,
and needed?

she disclaims her beauty has been long forbidden,
I will release the very low curve
of your manifesting back
lock it with mute fragility
and the furthest land away from absence

I sense curiculum
the binding of neverending days
overturnedto the same face
and the same wake up call
the long exsisting dream

venture you out
from the most brutal mortality
in my small hands
I will make you fit

your heavy
and your abudunace in character
murders me

but I will find
the right place
for you

precious torment

I have hidden away for so long
I will exhale my very breathe
the one which I have held in for so long
you see I was suffocating

tender,let go

Gracefully.

a lone showman amidst a crowd
stands raised on a pedestal;
he wears a hat,
its brim is lined with bells,
and on the top rests a newly bursting lily-fibrous stalks of nescient life
intertwining with felt and chime alike.  

raising high his flowered cap
he remorsefully disclaims
“you once ate the sun!”
but these words are ignored.
the crude ringing of the chimes
is the only sound that brings applause.

the wisest wise *** ever me
seeing others so clear
turning phrases and heads
all except my own
knowing
the one who disclaims the loudest
is the one who farted