Am I crimping in my own paradigm
Wallowing in my own crime?
I wanted to walk with your mother through her garden
Speak with her in Spanish and relish in her accent
Let my humor be the causer of her laughter
And accentuate the prettiness in the arrangements of her flowers,
So that she would like me as a daughter.
That was all that I was after
Just
but
a
few
hours ago
and now I feel old and moldy…
and cold and sorry and horny…
Am I crimping in my own paradigm
Wallowing in my own crime?
Now I’m spitting venom whenever I got you on the line.
I am mummified in my own myths and crypts and rhymes.
I am horrified at the freedom of this tomb,
I got room to move my toes,
but my nose feels decomposed like a flattened-out rose.
I am without any clothes so I’m exposed
in my natural infrastructure
to mites that bite in between my private thighs and this is a nightmare and a dream simultaneously.
I got my hair all over my face,
but my hands can’t reach up and pull the curtains back,
cuz they are stuck in their handcuff stance,
so I stay with this itchy, scratchy veil
against my eyes and pray that I not die in this pose, comatose.
This vault without a lock and the eerie and subtle threat of doom are my vacuum, but then sometimes there is you.
I’m an igloo and the sun is about to appear.
You’re my polar bear and you’re so near.
All I have to do is call to you and tell you
Come warm me up with your fur,
But I don’t, so I melt to the core.
Am I crimping in my own paradigm,
Wallowing in my own crime?
Sometimes you’re such a questionnaire.
A devouring, carnivorous bore.
My sanctuary boy,
My refuge voice.
I’m not doing too well.
I’m becoming my own prison cell.
I’m a rebel against my own good.
I try to push against this shell, but
this hard walnut lid won’t permit any real movement
so I submit and sit sedated in pity in this decrepit pit just thinking up shit that will never leave my lips.
I’ve come to conclude,
This cocoon is not fit for much action,
I’m contorted like it’s in fashion.
I can’t get the satisfaction of proper interaction because of my own cowardice,
my own ego insecurities and deficiencies.
So I hibernate in my vocabulary blanket
In my pride mittens I keep my fingers hidden and pass away in dearth of soul nutrients.
Because scraps through the cracks, measly dirt, is all I taste in my tongue while I lie in my excrement, wasted,
And realize I am weak and withered and crippled and mean.
And I can’t retreat from this realization
Far enough to gather enough strength
to make the necessary change
in my muscular membrane
to get out of this cyclical nutcase.
Crane.
I got no personality treats in my traits.
My self-esteem is suffering with the virus of vanity.
I’m a spiny whiny wino that wallows in the bowels of my woes for extended weekend intervals.
I’m crystallizing in my semantics, jellying into my peers, coconut spheres.
These vowels are losing their crispness and suffering with my lisp, gibbering in my ear, dear come get me.
The monster of doubt is churning in the furnace anxious to get muddied up in my solace and the knowledge of my distressful tears.
Beast that wishes to feast on my grief:
How small is your needle?
How stable is your surgery table?
Will my midriff meat be as plastic as a dummy’s tummy
When your knife slices it open with a glide?
You’ll reconstruct my stomach with your apparatuses,
pinch my intestines with your long prongs and tongs
and extend them across a cookie sheet,
until I am gone into an exterior dimension
that no longer includes my inner organs or emotions.
Am I crimping in my own paradigm,
Wallowing in my own crime?
When I walk among throngs,
I am assured in nothing, but in the fact that I am nothing.
Still I blaspheme, still I speak until I am raw in the jaw,
Still I exalt my own humility, still I gnaw at personal progress.
But neither are you perfect, admit it:
You leave the toilet seat up
To assert your masculinity.
.
Two pages and I have no comment. Nothing concrete.
No soluble remark that will demarcate what I want.
I’m a unique sheep in a circus scene.
The treble in the vibrato of my voice
Quakes, shakes and folds within itself
Like a contraction-reading machine’s drawings
And once again I am deceived in my own understanding.
We both wake up in our long hairs and pretend to be aware.
We are hippie weasels wearing sandals
for we chisel our pretences with exaggeration,
chew threefold on our colossal ponderings
and never care to release them from their pontification cages onto public provinces
long enough for them to be established and acknowledged for their genius.
I wish I could hold you while you think about your problems.
Make all your troubles into bubbles,
Helixes of tribulations,
so they could float away and pop somewhere in space away from our embrace.
Cuddles and troubles shouldn’t be in the same place.
It’s but a splinter, a genome letter,
An invisible mole at the tip of the orifice of my ear,
But you’ve noticed my profile in such detail
And have reminded me of my childhood brother
Tracing its shadow on a paper,
the pencil curling the length of my eyelash
With such delicate vigor.
Exponents of components of notorious moments:
That day I flew into your bedroom
in my broom, did I scare you?
The crevices of my tresses were dressed in leaves.
My garments and bonnet were plumped with breeze.
In the frenzy of our union,
My skirts’ ruffles soon crumbled and got tangled
on your dresser’s corners and hung like liquid cheese.
The muted rumble of the cinema flickered
While you unleashed my girdle
from the hinges of my haunches.
Theatrics, and I was stripped.
You commenced to tinker with my notches,
And I was expelled into the throes of desired wishes with exclamation.
How romantic.
Confession:
The metallic jingle of your dogtags
Makes me feel as savage as a jungle’s creatures.
I sit in my throne of prose and float above the world. My crown is ensnared in my savage do as they paint a portrait of me looking intensively pensive and askew.
My, my, my,
Am I crimping in my own paradigm
Wallowing in my own crime?
The black ghost will know.
My desires lie in mutual titillation,
So be my stimulation as I carouse.
This was but a nibble of my quibble.
A trickle from my oceanic pout.
Now I’ll be quiet in the quietus of my poem
And douse the heat under my blouse
With some invigorating libation.
With your permission,
I’ll now forsake articulation
and correct pronunciation
and catapult into inebriation.
Beautiful, attentive, tantalizing audience.
