Women know devastation. The arts know redemption. A
picture is silent my name. Ghetto to Hills, Hills to cross country, cross
country returning to alpha. Omega bleeding,
political skies, religion begging its premise,
despite, its longevity. Rooms are filled with hopes, growing into visions,
smoke filled clouds with voice; acorn stubborn, tulip yellow,
mighty as it becomes ignorance, the fastest chase cheetahs.
Women know indemnity. The prose knows its disconnection. And poetry could taste
sweeter. Most present venom,
lizard traipsing deserts, feeling churning into a
rainstorm; stereo white noise, scorpion agitation, grasshoppers and mice … so
tell me the truths, as living solid asphalt, to have
laughed at God; a mind full of cobras, going through
fatal thoughts, chasing tails, looking to become masters, palms filled with
dust.
