256 Readings | 3 Ratings

Juan Ponce de Leon Is Not My Homeboy, Joseph

I would make sweaty broth of the fountain of youth. 
My avid lips too avid, busy on my face lined by chemtrails 
& diarrhea of the mouth & smoking. Would bitches be 
allowed into the fountain at all? I could sneak in on your shoulder 
if not, or start a protest & a march & a war, 
uncivil barbarian ham-fisting the gate. 
I know that route, 
learned the truth of humans in suburbs. It goes like this: 
don’t look at yourself at all. Looking is the work 
of plastic surgeons and stranger-men, 
power grasped
in that gaze denied, no tu es pour moi la plus belle.

Posted 12/31/15
Comments
Commenting has been disabled for this piece.