Vapor


The sensuality is distracting
Thoughts are pornographic
Men surround her
Waiting for permission
To Enter

This is who she is

Subversive
Needful
Pregnant with
Intense Cities
Lining her lips
In Liquid Gold

Plump
Splayed upon the
Kitchen table

For breakfast
Dinner
A snack

This is who she is

A Pave
Meant to Lead

Etched in
Roman Numerals
Craving to open
Robes of sugar
Cubed

Crystallized along
The lining of her
Esophagus

Acidic
Eating her
Enchantment
Like a world-class
Diver

Pioneering the
Preservation of
Soul Music

This is who she is

When you are not
Looking
She shoves things into
Her body

To feel the
Emptiness
Spilled Within

The cold winters
The empty highways
The grand canyons

Too dry
Too bare
Too adaptable

To change
In the fruits of
Her desert

This is who she is

A sheep for sale
In her own black
Market

The face of a
Shantytown
Whose mouth

Smiles in dry
Desperation
Like a pharmacist
Consulting Erections

Beneath Counters
Of crude inhibition

This is who she is

A woman in the
Waiting room
Dripping on the
Couch

Her panties
Removed
To bring
Clarity like
Wine

An offering
To welcome
New guests
Into her
Neighborhood

This is who she is

Cane and
Sugar-beet Tourism
Tea and coal

A sweet
Traveler
Dark and
Calming

Hardening
To a world
Determined
To colonize
Her history

Until she becomes
A historical interest
Like a Chalice
Filled with Blood

That with a sip
She is asked to
Get drunk
On

Yet extinguishes
Like a cigarette
After being
Unsatisfactorily
Fucked
By life


Thoughts
Pornography and I met at a young age, before the body was introduced to strangers, and in between I dated masturbation. A picture of sex was drawn with crayons, unicorns, and gang bangs. A picture of love unimagined. A childish mind may consider marriage an eraser, paint, and mental transcendental flight from military intelligence. A woman’s body may want to feel art without vetting an artist.

What does one call the outline of graffiti?
What is it called when the art erases itself and forms its own gang?
Who wages war against the crippling of one’s own blood?

I am servant enshrined by the fires of my predecessors
The anguish of gratitude consoles me
I give no guilt, contempt, nor imprisonment
I take no right, faith, nor joy
I offer nothing but a childish mind in a woman’s body
Yet am confident in the Vapors of my Love
Lingering in the eyes
Drifting over the mouth
Yearning to be smoked


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