Overlook the fragile hourglass figure

Beyond corsets and pseudo-beauty rules,

Endorse thy curves and stretch marks strewn,

The dusky skin and frizzy curls,

Braille like pimples on the face

Discoloration, bumps and pores;

This Body shaming, I shall pass.



Writhing in pain and humiliation,

Drenching in rage and insecurity

While I lie,

Society curses me

Defining and redefining my chastity;

'T was the crop top, the alcohol and the sly behavior.

You set the monster free and blame the ****

This Victim shaming, I shall pass.



Beige and ebony;

They call me names blatantly

Betwixt skin color and bleached smiles.

Laugh and scoff all you want.

Harass the Black, detain them,

Prejudiced minds rule your dystopian world.

This Black shaming, I shall pass.



Without creating a labyrinth of stigma,

And seeking refugee in collective blame,

Let's construct our utopian world

Acknowledging all freaks and flaws

This Shaming, we shall pass.

Months ago, I used to apply makeup
for the sole purpose of feeling beautiful,
part of me adored the curve in my eyeliner
or the red in my lipstick; it made me confident,
it made me feel like my smile was brighter,
like any and everything I did, was wonderful.

I can't be sure when the shift happened,
but I find myself less and less capable
of enjoying the morning's application process.
I suppose it's because I no longer wear it for pleasure
but rather, to cover the darkness under my eyelids,
to mask the discoloration in my skin,
and to hide my far too visible exhaustion.

This is ancient land, this is
       hallowed ground, this is
21 kilometers worth of tunnels.  

Blood stops flowing after death
                                                          becaus­e the heart is no longer beating;
no longer forcing blood to gush through veins and arteries and vessels.  
It gets lazy, becomes stagnant.  
Slowly slides down to the
                                               lowest point on the body; creates a
                                          reddish purple discoloration on the skin
similar to a bruise, but not quite the same thing.  

          This is what I imagine the fifth level of the catacombs to look like:
                                           a reddish purple discoloration
                                          spread across my mother’s back.  

This is what I see when I close my eyes and rub them a bit too hard for a bit too long.  This is what I see when I look into a hole in the stone walls that is big enough to fit an infant.  This is what I see in the reflection of the Trevi Fountain.  This is what I see when I try to remember the shape of my mother’s sleeping body as it curled in on itself on top of a flat hospital mattress.  

The color of death is not black, is not white.  The
color of death is the color of blood: the way it looks
through the skin after having
                                                       hours and
                                                                ­            days and
                                 weeks to
slowly slink down into the
lowest bend of the body.  

This is the reddish umbra of the earth that the
                                                                             eclipsed moon hides behind.  
This is my body given for you.  
Take and eat.  
                                                  Do this is the remembrance of
                                                                ­                                                me.

(For Harry Clifton)

I HAVE heard that hysterical women say
They are sick of the palette and fiddle-bow.
Of poets that are always gay,
For everybody knows or else should know
That if nothing drastic is done
Aeroplane and Zeppelin will come out.
Pitch like King Billy bomb-***** in
Until the town lie bearen flat.

All perform their tragic play,
There struts Hamlet, there is Lear,
That's Ophelia, that Cordelia;
Yet they, should the last scene be there,
The great stage curtain about to drop,
If worthy their prominent part in the play,
Do not break up their lines to weep.
They know that Hamlet and Lear are gay;
Gaiety transfiguring all that dread.
All men have aimed at, found and lost;
Black out; Heaven blazing into the head:
Tragedy wrought to its uttermost.
Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages,
And all the drop-scenes drop at once
Upon a hundred thousand stages,
It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

On their own feet they came, or On shipboard,'
Camel-back; horse-back, ***-back, mule-back,
Old civilisations put to the sword.
Then they and their wisdom went to rack:
No handiwork of Callimachus,
Who handled marble as if it were bronze,
Made draperies that seemed to rise
When sea-wind swept the corner, stands;
His long lamp-chimney shaped like the stem
Of a slender palm, stood but a day;
All things fall and are built again,
And those that build them again are gay.

Two Chinamen, behind them a third,
Are carved in lapis lazuli,
Over them flies a long-legged bird,
A symbol of longevity;
The third, doubtless a serving-man,
Carries a musical instmment.

Every discoloration of the stone,
Every accidental crack or dent,
Seems a water-course or an avalanche,
Or lofty ***** where it still snows
Though doubtless plum or cherry-branch
Sweetens the little half-way house
Those Chinamen climb towards, and I
Delight to imagine them seated there;
There, on the mountain and the sky,
On all the tragic scene they stare.
One asks for mournful melodies;
Accomplished fingers begin to play.
Their eyes mid many wrinkles, their eyes,
Their ancient, glittering eyes, are gay.

There are metallic, life-like statues of human figures scattered through my city, often on park benches.  You must look twice the first time you spot them, and sometimes, each time, as they are so nat-ural, that they fool the retina image of man.*

The traffic light,
red to green,
yet my limbs,
froze fruit solid,
release catch stuck,
unflippable,
somehow plastic freezes,
mobility skills rusted
by December's hampering
cheeky cheeks,
a seasonal reddish copper
discoloration of the extremities,
a harmony of no sensation

A comet stuck in
pedestrian neutral,
collided/jostled by
starry eyed
Fifth Avenue
street walkers and tourists.

my presence sensed,
touched, yet avoided,
unnoticed,
like streetlight,
lamppost, mailbox,
I am, a body,
at rest,
unseen
but on display
in the art gallery of
Manhattan's Lost and Found

In the section of the paper
where the
unimportant local news is
sliced n' diced
into single paragraphs,
of human interest,
tidbits, amuse bouche,
items of
major minor interest,
The New York Times
reported the discovery of an
unauthorized lifelike
bronze n' copper sculpture.

eyes of polished nickel,
heart of stained steel,
rendition of a man
so lifelike y'all do a
triple take, smile,
take a cell photo,
phone a friend

his embodiment can be found
on the rounded corner of
Columbus Circle, @59th St.,
where you enter Central Park.

upon a bench,
man clutching Sunday newspapers,
a pair of scissors,
coupons cut,
scattered at his feet.
a homely but comely,
****** expression,
one of bewilderment.

A tiny plaque on a brass plate,
at his feet,
hints of his progenitor and human origins.

Artist: Unknown,
Materials: Organic Metals
Title: A Living Finish

so tightens the end of september
like a noose, rained for weeks straight
and i’m doing whatever feels right

you run your fingers thru my hair
and i’m embarrassed, don’t know
how to tell you how i feel

want to run away into the night
with you, want to drink again
and fight the system, its every discoloration

so each day goes
forgetting what brings the glitter
back in my eyes, smiles fading for no reason

Mark Twain to Helen Keller


“Oh, dear me, how unspeakably funny and owlishly idiotic and grotesque was that “plagiarism” farce! As if there was much of anything in any human utterance, oral or written, except plagiarism! The kernel, the soul—let us go farther and say the substance, the bulk, the actual and valuable material of all human utterances in plagiarism.

For substantially all ideas are second hand, consciously or unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources and daily use by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them; whereas there is not a rag of originality about them any where except the little discoloration they get from his mental and moral calibre and his temperament, which is revealed in characteristics of phrasing.”

Mark Twain

457
But I don't look like a tiger
they call me fierce
but I feel like a liar.

Only I can see
the damage done to me
457
and it didn't have to be.

457
But nobody knows
everything's faded so it doesn't even show.

457
Can you see the discoloration?
in summer heat, jacket halfway off,
notice my hesitation?
I've been conditioned,
"scars are ugly"
457
but you can't even see them.

457
That's where I draw the line
not again
no more pain
"I promise I'm fine".

All this hiding has been in vain.
it's been such a long long time,
how much happiness did I feign?
Just to get through?
Just to survive.
Doing what I can just for
one more, only one more day.
I didn't believe but I looked up at God and begged for another way.

He told me to be brave
He told me He'd make a way
He promised He'd shed 1,000 tears of forgiveness for 1 single mistake.

But I didn't believe Him,
I didn't do my part
so 457 lines I've made.
Crossing the line away from real life and stepping into the darkness within and hoped I'd fade.

457
Not as bad as it could've been,
but forever it seemed, it took that long, 5 years to come out.

5 years to give up and look for another rout.
But it's a battle I still fight.
I remember myself and Gods promises of life,
I have to read it all back to myself every single night.

Do I carve away at skin or erase all of my sin?
I can try to look for Gods face but I know that I'm only human.

457 cuts on my body
but the words you gave somehow felt worse.

I messed up.
32 more, an unforgiving night, devastated and once again alone.
But God understands and knows
He sees my mistakes and woes
457 cuts on my body.
but 457,000 healings on my soul.

I'll look forward to the day
where the razors wont get in my way
I'll live life, Gods promises fulfilled
I'll try to do my part,
praise His name, look ahead
no longer making grotesque red art.
I'll let it fade, let the memories decay
I won't have to lie about being ok.

457
457
5 years of my flesh punished for experiencing sadness and existing.

Sure those who may know me may call me a tiger,
mocking memories of the old broken skin.
They could call me fierce, or weak, or strange, or a cutter, like I'd been.
But if one thing remains then I know that it doesn't matter.
Only God can forgive my sins.

You can hate me,
but if you haven't been there don't blame me.
I don't have time to listen to lies.
You have a problem with my past?
Speak ill of how I had to cope to last?
God forgives you too, yeah, but I know you didn't ask.

Yeah, I'm a tiger, a lioness, bird whatever,
freedom under God will allow me to soar.
I'll reach new heights that they never expected, and they'll never forget the roar I've perfected.

457
All that my agonies were,
but I won't let it continue to happen anymore.
And one day I wont even remember that number...
I won't even realise what it was for.

You have not seen me until you have seen me as I see myself
You have not seen me until you see me as I trace my hand over the stretch marks that climb the sides of my torso like veins that squeeze me
You have not seen me until you see me as my eyes become dimmer as I look at the discoloration of my sides
You have not seen me until you see every scar, bruise, and scratch that plagues my thighs and arms
You have not seen me until you have watched my body give in and breakdown because the image I see staring back at myself is one of broken glass, broken dreams, broken memories

You have not seen me until you understand that I am not a towering temple with battle scars and broken beauty marks

I am a shell of lost spirit and soul
I am a body, torn apart apart by hatred and rotten words

You have not seen me

divot discoloration blemished imperfection.
The storybook of my flesh is peppered with these pockmarks of life.
A secret connect the dots maze on my body binding the story pages together.
I grin as I examine my body and all it's protruding oddities, how beautiful  it is as I crash course through this crazy ocean my breath still ebbs and flows in synchronization.
I love the nooks of me no one else could possibly understand.
my peculiarly chipped tooth buried in my gums as a reminder of juvenile fun.
I tuck myself into a bed of comfort cradling these imperfections, a grand testament of life.
The girl with the electric smile and lazy eye.

I saw my mother for the last time
The mortician whispered in a silent voice I'm aware your mother didn't wear much makeup, but we had to put some on her as she had some discolouration."

I walked through the slightly opened door
Across the room was a light brown casket
Roses as red as the breast of a robin surrounded you

I couldn't seem to get my feet to move
My feet cemented to the ground
All your artifacts lay around you

Step
By painful step
I made my way over to you

I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes
My orchid hearts petals fell slowly to the pit of my stomach

My mom didn't look like my mom
Not with that makeup
But they put it on you to cover the discolouration, the discoloration of the carbon monoxide that corrupted you beautiful mind, or maybe it was the demons that had haunted you for so long

When my tears began to overflow my red eyelids I could have sworn I saw you breathing
My mom is gone
My mom is gone

I kept repeating over and over

It’s that rough patch, not to be confused with that soft grass. Where its greener on the other side they say. So I put that clichéd line on replay, as my mind wonders away from its looped track and I find my soul drawn to this one rough patch. The one where the rain forgot to fall, though my depression looms like clouds ready to burst at its red taped seems. Ready to break free and quench the forsaken dreams, of those entangled in its constricting theme and the lack of what should motivate them to break free from this quilted piece of the so called American Dream. But this feathered ideology has just as much rooted truth as the forsaken grass. Ripped from the ground and held up by the masses, YOU think this drought will force the skies to fall to its knees and weep? You think my rain dance of soft spoken discipline and firm handed compassion is enough for Noah to build the ark? Send them in two by two with their quilted grass and torn seams. Bound in red tape, tax payer hate, and a world on their shoulders that’s now forced to their plates. Where chipped out bricks and clothes with rips meet the checkered grasses and one way trips down potholed streets. Where ‘broke’ is the culture, ‘cracked’ is the future, and ‘shattered’ is a person’s understanding of their purpose. Built on burnt out grass, rusted out fences, and busted out dreams. Of NBA stardom and NFL leagues. Only to be replaced with NBA sneakers and NFL ****. But that grass is green, don’t get me wrong. There’s that other side that we all try to focus on. Where positivity pushes mowers and helps plant seed, were people are built up like stalks using Jacks magic beans. Only to face the giants of our new reality, as these 12 year old doors close with a bells final ring. Forced in the world full of giant inequity, but that nice summer breeze always put me at easy. As I tie up the silver lining of my last pair of torn up jeans. Squinting from the light reflecting off these sky scrapping beams, of that ‘pulled up by my own boot straps’ ideology. That keeps on ripping up grass in the place of their concreted schemes. A foundation built on an inherited legacy of rolled up cotton sleeves. Only to be replaces with shiny new cuffs, Italian fitted fiends, and a lack a communal understanding. For those without an equitable ground to plant their dirt stained feet. Whose souls lack the foundation of an inherited concrete. Whose footsteps find only patches with the occasional green grass, stemming from the rain’s 7-3 schedule that never seems to last. Void of enough time for their neglected patches to be sown, for their budding grasses to be grown, and misguided shoes to be souled. But the inherited rain continues to fall and some grasses remain green, enough to keep the majority screened to this water tower of inequality. Or at least content as their grasses get wet, cultivated by willful ignorance and an acquired colorblind sense. A sense of understanding as we judge our lawns the same. Remembering our own discoloration as our colorblind eyes takes aim. To pelt our vibrant lawn with the care it so desperately needs, making sure to fill in the spots where our grasses meet our weeds. Forgetting that our feet once stood in a plot of browned out patches, as we stand within the greener side not to be confused with the softer grasses.

Hollow words, like hollow bones can break and shatter
They can pierce the flesh, boil the blood
Seething from the open wound comes
Every ill intention
Every falsification
Staining the crisp, white linen
No amount of homeopathic remedy can remove the stain
Try chemicals
But you'll find that for any blood removed
It's replaced with the sour odor and discoloration
From whatever "oxy" product you may try
Is it worth it?
All that marketing and franchising for something that doesn't remove
But replace?
Can anything truly be removed
purely, permanently?

Upon your body
were the littlest
of imperfections
that caused you
to miss the
beauty
and the art
they had created

Scars
Discoloration
Lack of pigment

Combined
they have made
perfection itself

I am leaking silently,
like pipes beneath the kitchen sink
You find out that mold had nested, accumulated
in the corners and caused the floors to rise up
Heave their wooden planks and produce discoloration,  
My chest is that floor and the water has
no place to go so it soaks and strains,
*****, sighs, releases fluid in
t
e
n
d
r
i
l
s.

Looking into the large bathroom mirror
Before the bath
I catch a glimpse, a flash of something
A darkened area of discoloration
Almost as if some future dead thing now inhabits me:
A too old cut of meat turned a familiar greenish hue
Dead corpse waiting to sprout
A glaze eyed figure in the haunted house.
The spot may reveal itself on the face,
Or along a shoulder or arm. Just for a second.
Looking again, it was only my imagination.
The infamous man who dug up graves
To take parts of the bodies, spoke of a woman's body,
That it flushed red where he began to take off
A part of it, by cutting it.
Even that dead for a week body knew
Something violent was being done to it
And stories abound of the still-growing hair, fingernails..
Not just haunted tales to scare children
It seems a little bit of death resides in the living
And a touch of aliveness remains even in death:
The boundaries of when we are transformed
Into house of wax characters
Are never as clear as medical textbooks imply.

I only wish I would meet you
Surrounded by daisies
Infinitely shining and spinning
Only your eyes keeping me caught
In one reality.

If I could just touch your hand
and shiver with elation.
Fingertips playfully mingling, unaware
of the rest of each other
for the moment,
and the universe would sigh
with warm relief.

Simply I want you to hold me
like you've never held a thing before me,
like you've never even known
what it is to hold something
before your hands reached round
to grip my weakened body.

Weak in all the best ways,
Exhausted from happiness,
my face pained from how often
you make it smile.
And I'll be as perfectly content
as a leaf on the breeze, swept up and falling,
falling fast in ecstasy.

And I'll be as agonizingly breakable,
as a thin glass ornament,
dangling helplessly,
catching all the light of the world,
prisms of color reflected in my eyes.

Everything about you will be gorgeous.
every hair, every discoloration,
every subtle expression
will be another reason I'll have
to love you unconditionally.

Without even the condition
that you love me back.
Without even the hope
that I will have you forever.
Without even the guarantee
that you won't cut me off and watch
when I shatter.

I cried too much
but was it enough
I can't run
hiding the turth to all
I must be done
crying pain of blooding tears
the sickness I have
will never heal the scars
the discoloration of my life
will never show
depressed in my only feels
doleful face
that I try not
to have any motion
so long to being successful
strain to pains holing might
I will never win the fight
I cried so many tears through life
can't say sorrow will come
I can say no elated this will some
Cried enough, done

black paint slips down a weathered white canvas,
soiling age and dignity: fine lines and discoloration.
but her will wished for the knowledge--
volumes of thick tired dust drenched pages
recorded the deeds from do-good and destruction,
and while she believed the words would cure her,
they rarely did.

there's a certain elegant aesthetic in the discoloration
of a bruise on pale skin
of knowing that yes, higher up means you are in big trouble
but higher up also means
the world can see
that she is
yours

Things that turn purple:
Feet, when exposed to the cold
Food, when exposed to oxygen
My face, when exposed to fear
To my habits
To my past.
The mention of tying a noose brings pictures to my mind
Of how I used to plan my own death
While paging through a magazine in a waiting room
Ready for the doctors to see me
To tell me I wasn't that sick
Because they didn't know the things I did to myself
I covered up the sliced layers of my skin quite nicely
With different grades of fabric
The belts tied in the shape of my neck
Hung like skeletons in my closet
People kept telling me it was his fault I was so distraught
But that did not make me feel any better
They would constantly tell me there were support groups for the molested
That I was not alone
But there is never any solace in being a statistic
Numbers burn across my skin like matches
Each additional time I heard them
The skin would bubble and blister
Forming a new wound for me to later pick the scab off
If the world did not do that first.
Through therapy, I learned that
When I try to carry the pieces of me
That are bigger than my hands can hold
That are sharper than my flesh can take
That are wider than my unwieldy body
Even though I didn't think that was possible
I crumble like the walls of Jericho
When an army came rushing the city limits.
My past is an armada that rushes full speed through my chest
Piercing me with swords and muskets and bullets
Causing me to bleed and rot from the inside out
Causing me to fall away like petal from stem
Causing me to implode silently
And maybe a sign of this disaster
A symptom of this sickness
Is discoloration.
Things turn purple
As a result of prolonged exposure
To their personal kryptonite.

Blue and purple patterned upwards
From wrist to elbow
Fine as ivy

Green and yellow discoloration creeping inwards
As roses do when wilting

Her sleeve pulled lower
Hiding her tragic secret under faded cotton
Passing eyes dont question

Knuckles lined, an old road map of aggression
White scars criss cross over old breaks

She was a fighter
And sometimes she lost

Three:
Two in the front seat.
One in the back.
None of them pay mind
to the Scars that crisscross his wrist,
to the Discoloration and the Puncture Mark on her arm,
to the faint smell of Toast and ***** about him.
Because they’re all here for the same reason.
You get used to things.
You’d be surprised what you can get used to.
She wants to escape.
Who the hell wants to be stuck in a place where you can’t even smile?
He seeks his dead princess.
Unaware that the true love of his Afterlife
sits only a seat away
While the other is simply along for the ride.
Sleeping under a night with no stars.
Driving with no headlights.
To a camp.
Which is not quite.
He tells them:
Miracles only happen when they don’t matter.
For him: a speechless northern bride
For her: a second chance
For him: a gift.
He awakes.
A glance to the next bed.
He smiles.
She quivers.
She smiles.

<>
“Stop this day and night with me
and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun,
(there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things
at second or third hand,
nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either,
nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides
and filter them from your self.”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by WALT WHITMAN

                                                      ­§§§

*These admonitions are the ten conditionals
commandments of straight talk,
boy,
you’ve spent a life lessening and lesson-learning
and all laid before you for taking, gaining,
but for what? for naught?

Start this day, having spent my night with you,
possessing less than what is my now
completed,
this,
my unfinished commencement,
provisioned, a simultaneous beginning and finishing,
emptying a void of
fulfilling questioning.

What does this life desire of me,
that it granted and then removed,
the knowledge of perfection?
leaving me striving, writhing,
shivering unceasingly,
in my saddened, bursting, hacking
and hackneyed chest.

I walk the same cobblestone streets,
observing the descendants of your ancestral tugs
portaging, paying homage to East River tides,
carrying those goods,
the origins of all poems,
from where? to where?
unknown,
but always past our conjoined eyes.

And yet do I look, with our merged eyes,
filtered by a century’s discoloration,
forgive me Walt, for now recalling sights
that you first observed,
that I witness first hand,
100 and fifty years later,
sharing a stolen wisdom with you.

Todays new millionth sunrise bids me stand,
observe the river traffic from my kitchen window,
accept that my takings are debts,
a few, even paid back,
yet, most still owed,
for the origins of all my poems,
are oddly and oddity old,
unoriginal, second, third handed
as I look through the eyes of the dead,
and yours too,
this my unoriginal,
original sin....
(pretending  I am a poet)



                                                   §§§§§

6:24AM
Manhattan Island,
By the East River
Thu. May 14, 2020

along these lines
these strands of hair
the blackening shadows

of their beauty explicit
and at the same time subtle

intertwined with your curves
your edges
your color
and you discoloration

along these lines
i found your true beauty
and in it lies my happiness

lie the lies that form a sense of happiness