the day Mama was born

I rushed breakfast of cake and coffee. My morning was drowsy like the sun that day. The crispness of my routine painted the air, the portrait of naiveté. I didn’t know. I didn’t know why they came. Why they hated, trying not to hurt. How do we live the way we do? Made in somewhere other than America becomes a part of my story. I was burned into history, but I’ll trade the world not to be the center of attention, the center of this mausoleum they name after me. Keep your war, it doesn’t include me because I’m countries of cultures away; distant from your standard and regulation. Americans classified by hyphenation deserve to lack patriotism. Punctuating hyphens cannot merely connect the lack of lineage. By the very root of the word, I’m in bondage, tied to a faith, I do not know by name. Posting missions in every landscape, in order for God to be everywhere, I christen your future, hissing over your past. Today, the flea weighs more than stock in the market. The unmarked martyr involuntarily sleeps because the city chooses not to. The price of inflation, like heroin smuggling; is the current event. Addiction is still over-rated. Your news revealed pictures that resembled my backyard. It’s been now made public that home fronts will lose their shelter. Repetition of crowded smoke clouds out people, hollowing out the souls. Empty borders refrain from further headline. The world is getting b(itch)ackslapped; whose sides are we’re on? The intelligentsia becomes couch potatoes while the underdog writes the script.

 

born again virgin

I dedicate the tone of my temperament on this day to the vibration of my clitoris. You see when you take love out of the esoteric and sometimes ignorant ritualism, you see it all, like the afterbirth And what more can I say than thank you. It’s what follows shortly after that is permanence. The ripened berry, the wind-blown seed travel to either life or death with a story in between. My pollination is irrelevant until I look for my ancestors. My lower body growled as if it was hungry so I fed it with love’s food. Sad that I had nothing to show for the cost, I sat bewildered in a memory. It’s simple and complicated like the Dali reprint you pass by on your wall everyday. If the important sex takes place in the mind, then the loss of virginity is trivial. Denying the opportunity of time and space, I had no chance to reflect. My memory is simply the chip where all the data is sent, storage I call upon for reference. I wash away my sins like I rinse the dirt from my skin, replacing reason with soap. Only when I drop the denial and compile the history do I breakthrough and become whole again.