I Brush My Hair, Waiting In The

Poetry To Me Is Prayer.

I Who Was A House Full Of Bowel Movement, I Who Was A Defaced Altar, I Who Wanted To Crawl Toward God Could Not Move Nor Eat Bread.

I Would Sell My Life To Avoid The Pain That Begins In The Crib With Its Bars Or Perhaps With Your First Breath When The Planets Drill Your Future Into You.

Love? Be It Man. Be It Woman. It Must Be A Wave You Want To Glide In On, Give Your Body To It, Give Your Laugh To It, Give, When The Gravelly Sand Takes You, Your Tears To The Land. To Love Another Is Something Like Prayer And Can't Be Planned, You Just Fall Into Its Arms Because Your Belief Undoes Your Disbelief.

Man Is A Bird Full Of Mud, I Say Aloud. And Death Looks On With A Casual Eye And Scratches His Anus.