Paradoxtrix 2

When I had a chance to meet her,
I conjectured from her style,
that she was raised and branded
in some furnace of the wild,
a troubled but bright-eyed spirit,
molded in the image of a child,
a nestling sort of entity
with a captivating smile.



Her face displayed the zodiac,
twelve signs in conjunction,
components of each element
in fierce competition,
a galaxy unto herself
and dare I fail to mention,
an ebon goddess of pulchritude,
demanding strict attention.



Her hair was twisted dreadlocks,
snaking pass her shoulders,
the movement of her bedroom eyes
were horizontal shutters,
though she held her head regally high
her feet were bogged down in gutters,
depression and low self-esteem,
were the weight of massive boulders.

I Was in Jail With Paris Hilton

I was in jail with Paris Hilton,
but not in the same cell,
while she was receiving preferential treatment
I was catching hell!
I had to lie face-down on my bed
in order to be fed,
the food thrown at my feet,
knotted in a plastic bag.
I dared not look or take a peek,
to see if my issue was correct,
if so, the deputies at hand,
would have grabbed me by the neck,
called me names and then tossed
my bedding on the dirty floor,
and upon exiting the dorm,
only to laugh and slam the door.

I was in jail with Paris Hilton,
but was treated quite differently,
I wasn't wowed and pampered
or subject to pandering.
I was made to squat and spread my cheeks,
and raise my testes high,
roll my tongue from side to side,
kiss my dignity good-bye.

I was in jail with Paris Hilton,
but wore a different set of clothes,
that were wrinkled, torn and tattered,
and unpleasant to the nose.
The slippers issued squeezed my feet,
the shorts were twice my size,
the socks were holey and didn't match,
the t-shirts were likewise.
Her clothes were fashionably chic,
as if from some designers rack,
every stitch of clothes she wore,
fitted perfectly on her back.

The one hot meal I had each day,
was nothing to brag about,
her meals, for all I know, were catered,
due to her celebrity clout.
I bet the stars in sheriff's Baca's eyes,
are shinning to this day,
about her privileged two-week stay.

It took at least nine hours,
for my release to be processed,
and during that harrowing time,
my well-being was not addressed.
And when my feet touched the streets,
long before the crack of day,
neither satellite dishes nor TV crews
Were there to applaud my way.

C-Section

no longer confined
in a womb/tomb
too small for passage.

released
into another zone,
splashed with light
through an open slit
of sliced, wet flesh.

the entrance
promptly
stapled shut,
so as to allow
warm, womb-memories
to remain intact.

Subway

in this burrowed city
are networks -cocooned streets
in cavernous-like sheaths
where neither moon nor sun
trickle down beams of light,
often, artificially lit
by flashing signals-
steel-pressed sparks
and luminous platform bulbs,
it remains at most,
a dark womb.

the streets, obedient conveyors,
tracks, allow gratified iron worms
tunnelled passage;
absorb the rhythmic
hypnotic screeching
and clatter of tumbling wheels.

the third rail, hums,
vibrantly silent -
deathly stark as the moon,
deadlier than the sun
when touched unadvisedly.