What You Thought Hops

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 fucking 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, fuck 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 ass 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)