Monday, March 05, 2007

On Living Brown

When I show up,
it's not my mind or my critical thoughts
it's the disheveled parts of me, they see
with my panted breath because of that spiral staircase, up

When I cut you off without permission
I'm a dameless tragedy, with acidic volition
without manners, without a filter
Must have grown up, bitter
That Brown Girl, yes.

And if I moan, I'm a whore
with no boundaries, or more
No selection
I must have disregarded all those religions of Asian predilection
Buddhist, religous, nonesense, whatever they teach over there
And fulfilled my losing prophesy of sexual warfare

No satisfaction found?
Better next time around.
Except 2nd chances don't come along like
trains, buses, bikes, and boards
So I gather what I can, gather and hoard

What can you do really
when your Brown is taken
as canary from the east
or scarlet, creme , even raven

Brown is never Brown.
Brown is never seen.
Cuz it's transparent.
An Invisible machine.

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