In support of meat and vision

CVS can’t hear my debate among its sweet pink and its nude. I tell you that you just don’t understand what it’s like to level off the body of a woman; to have a man’s mouth like a tide at your foot, to sparkle like a coral-lipped moon. Spend ten dollars to transcend dirt beneath the All-American and the Juicy Couture. On the ride home we listen to Rihanna and I sigh projective and am a shell. With family, sisters argue over my material. A baby diamond! Powder on her curvature! Is it gonna ruin her or is it better, is it cancer or is it glamour. In the back of the room I interject quietly and sip Bud Light. I want to sleep with myself, of course. Emulate a newborn, of course. Love my impulse so much, celebrate Body so much, make painless crime and then blame my own poor form.


Young-Girl

I don’t give
a shit, I just

Pain poem

I wear a velvet piece to the therapist’s office and she asks me to close my eyes. We agree to experience an illusion of me dancing, a jealous peony. We agree to nestle little functions in my hands. After a while, a relationship is a whisper for the sake of intimacy and not for the sake of respect. In wanting to be so impure we’ve proven an empty point of the Body. I want to move alone in myself. With you I want to be a little cartoon cutout of the ocean, to wear fat eyelashes and to parody a mask. I know we all long for succulents. Someone that buds off herself, that delights with beads of self-sufficiency. A venus comb ferments with experience. Like everything else virgin muscle needs time. 

It happens to rainwater

Oprah’s talk show
is like its own Woman:

structured with blend-edges, cascading tough-soft,

cascading lazy drips of place

watching Britney Spears visit the show in 2002,
with her blackberry laugh and thin-bubble lines,
feels like leaning against the World Trade Center in 1996
and tasting the ocean

Silver horseshoe club

I wear virility like
it bore into me sweetly,
snapchat the moon