cubistpoet

Hard Liquor for the Fevered Ego

I am a pubic curl of lint drowning in the juice of a fuzzy navel,
a spot aiming to be spectated against a background of black,
angry souls pitched against the brick walls of societys halls.

Black not as in skin but as in blacklisted,
spider-kissed by domestic long-neck drafts of controversy,
and black as in blowin in the wind of a Bob Dylan-penned eulogy.

But to the lenses of my life, liberty, and pursuit of line
they shine like diamonds or golden idols,
not American but worldwide, transcending the tectonic politic of continental divide.

And next to the groaning wall of bones memorializing their editorializing
my stab at pissed-off G# harmonizing is tone-deafly off key, a chicklettes peep,
yellow, pudgy, and stomach sickeningly sweet.