Send* corrections to the typist Poetry
is the language of imagination Poetry
is a form of positive creation Difficult
isn't, it the point Ya? missin it Rockin's
kinda new to me cause my true love is poetry I
don't know what you thought hops but chief I've got tall props see This
be thee rebuttal version To
mister academic who does not believe that my poems would Could
should have muscles and bodies like this one I
want my poem to be brazen and long legged And
squash mud under a hard yellow heals wicked gravity I
wish to leave this lab of brains swishing in jars And
write poems that shatter glass with undeniable bodies I
want to be a word that wants to be a sweating brick So
drink that through your pointed teeth and critique it I
want to be the strophe that strokes the ear in salty heaves A
spine that bends and works like the dance you shut the door to be Listen
to me with, your hips Clutch
this line in the fleshy grip of bold thighs Eat
through your ears and drink through your pores And
if you see me splashed across a page Know
that a leaf is a tongue that you wear to make love To
a voice not your own eat, this poem Floss
with the barbed length of a simile And
scrape your tongue across the living verses Bristling
skin my I is just my I I promise I
believe in closure but not in hospital corners The
way first principles are real but untraceable see God
is meaning means, becoming means, I knock before I come in Means
I wriggle through the riddle of the flesh to out sweat it Means
I wear my impertinence upon my fluttering lip My
refusal to bow out to some abstract curtain And
exist backstage by the sandbags and pulleys Hell
f gay***no I! exist to be seen To
see and be seen to, push my I to the thou Because
the premise of my rhythm is the un-apologetic Emphatic
insistence of the declarative sentence That's
right bad boy I, am I is I be f, k**you I.
can speak about myself and rhyme in couplets if I want to I
am I is I be I do I self I delf I solo I dolo is is is is I I I Am
my mother's talk stories from beginning to end Listen.
to this poem with your hips Yes..
it's Denizen an exhalation of breath And
these Typicaaal Cats will make the session start fresh Yes
it's I grip tight the lemon scented mic device These
Typicaaal Cats will make the session start right See
I was born with two tongues but no green card My
skin marked by the immigration narratives of my people drifting a-part Of
the two worlds I reside in the high yellow phantasm of, an undiscovered future I
am to breach the chasm between my mother's memory and my hazy prison I so knew Languages
off the scraps of my hand-me-down clothes I
grip with ten toes the type or types are putting fact in funk Deliver
colder than statistics bubble, hot like a Cali trunk I
dwell in the fertile valley between ghosts and history Subvert
the dogma lefty-loosy righty-tighty every time I speak Conjunction
junction what's ya function my assumption That
the fearful face of my future would fall and then my punching is in question Ghosts
grip my chest and I can't breathe Panic
brings my chinky eyes wide and then I can't read Roll
and I tumble and I cry the whole night long Roll
and I tumble and I cry the whole night long But
my creator calls the human out the thinnest of the vapors I
tease the story out the blankness of the paper I
can weave a family out the scarlet of a sin And
write the world in which my seed will be at ease inside his own skin See
Miss Liberty stagger with evictions falling out I
tap with two tongues against the inside of my mouth Had
a date with assimilation but, I stood her a up** And
made love to the multi-color features brimming in my cup Because
the end comes quick ego, says quit I
say work is love let my body be a brick Because
the end comes quick and ego says quit I
say work is love let my body be a brick Yes
it's Denizen an exhalation of breath And
these Typicaaal Cats we make the session start fresh Yes
it's I grip tight the lemon scented mic device Typicaaal
Cats will make the session start right (see uh uh)
Lyrics taken from http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/t/typical_cats/what_you_thought_hops.html