26 Years as a Southern Girl

A life of a 26 year old
metropolitan cosmonaut,
deep-fried and Georgia spent.
Coming from the other side,
she is hillbilly and corncob kept.
This life of a blue-eyed,
southern belle Gypsy girl.
A graduated, intellectual
raging behind a bred hypocrisy
that is stained with the likes of
Black river catfish and Nigger toes,
the ones she ate on in the waiting
'tween summer and winter.
And so now, she stares up at the moon, pretending to be
the Aquarian Age answer to humanity.
As it scrawls out something like,
"Watch out for the 26 year old, blue-eyed southern belle Gypsy girl, she has found her niche."
Under Construction
As I danced the Swahili


I have seen the fathomable-
the bewilderment to it all.
In this fierceness below
the Centaur's throne.
Crazy as it may be,
I have danced the Swahili
in a better bartering place.
And this catapolt is close
to adding insult to injury,
if I posess it as it is-
without reach.
Driving away the timber
off the twang of tremble.
Designing it as it comes
clothed to us in broach.
(Crazy as it may be,
I have danced the Swahili
in a better bartering place.)
And the income to the
Americas is ours to dwaddle
and squaddle if it suits our purpose
to be as drivn as such.
In this crazy place in which
we barter in our footwears.
This time zone where we drive
away the timber off
the twang of tremble.
As we dance the Swahili
when love is without reach.