Let Me Be
Your Flower

for the Champ

First, I loved your body,
perfection.
Then I loved your spirit.
Divine.
Too proud, too beautiful,
too honest for white men
and their greed.

You have planted
your feet firmly
on the roof of God’s mouth
and, angel,
I hear you vibrating
with the Word.

Your prophesies never
lie, your poetry takes the
blueness from my eyes,
makes me fall in love
forever with those dark
forbidden lovers, those
sexy brown almond eyes.

Bhakti yoga training
boxer, your sweat is
semi-precious, one drop
distills a Buddha’s smile.
Mohammed, you are
the mountain.

Turn that human spine
caterpillar,
dance on wings of satin
colors forever lightly,
honey bee,
your stinger as long
as your right arm,
flex that big
black love muscle,
Mohammed Ali,
and let the people
of the world
cross-pollinate.

 

After George Sand

I found my cunt between clever
parenthesis trying to explain itself.
Men tell me quotation marks scar
my body. They call me poetess, smiling.

The very slightly stylized use of my
clitoris telegraphs the Universe,
creams adjectives in solitude.
Let cigarettes suffice for breath.

I think the moon bears her hermetic
silence too well. She dares to
laugh down at my shivering hopes
for love, for life.

Give me glorious illusions to
sleep on my back porch, smoking
fine cigars, gray suede boots,
and my hair, cut it short.

Remember me in gardens turning tea cups
inside out. Dildoes melt in my hands.
A liquid mouth no word could shatter
bearing gifts of consonants sometimes.

Cheap gypsy to the earlobe, my shadow
cloisters only a rose, irreplaceable
and red. You may meet me in cities
where men play music on the edges of

beds and knives, jazz to ease the nights
upstairs, through cities of isolation,
streets of busy despair. Coming out,
I come like good news, I come to steal

the sun, I come wearing love low
on my brow, cocked to the side,
the scandal, the flair, satisfies.
Proud of my strong ribs

I give credit to no man.
Call back those goddamn prophets, once
is enough for salvation, and empty tombs
need no poetic winding sheets.

Let me write, love, sugar sweet,
my heart as rich and temporary as money.
I put the stars to shame with my name
my words, my life, my loves, my hair, cut short.