When Poetry Makes Love With A Dancer

It took me an entire coastline of washed away poems to realize poetic justice has more than 4 directions,

After so many directives, dictionary definitions,

I foreclosed all other perspectives, don’t mistake my foreclosure with closure, or my inclusion for seclusion,

After witnessing travesty, a Shakespeare tragedy,

Causing a dancer born from a poet’s pen to carve melodies upon my skin,

Imagine each wanderer committing sarcasm, misfortune and fake commitment,

Compass possession, erotic confessions,

Witnessing all possible senses,

It took…

Unlaced Jordan’s, Pumas, bank accounts associated with fantasies to succeed,

Not fame but game, not game but love, not love but romantic tendency,

This is not a poet’s suicide…

This woman twirled while masked, not floating, nearly elevated, not rotating, only plagiarizing science fiction,

Her feet signed a signature at the bottom of this page,

Smooth ankles never blemished from historical roots,

If any unintelligent personality needs a definition,

She’s a delicate but carefully crafted thorny flower,

Well traveled, sometimes well mannered, always well dressed, most importantly well versed,

Each fabric motioned between particles, drifting between galaxies, traveling light years,

No pick up lines can spark conversation,

Her knees as strong and well built as any Golden Bridge or Leaning Tower of failed imagination,

When God creates gravity, He gave her the key to perfect balance and sway,

Her knees complete notes, ying and yang, thighs give presidential pardons,

Thighs without polite assurance, if touched without approval, one seeks a death sentence,

She’s roots of West Africa to East Africa, South Africa to the Middle East, India to Australia,

Her mother The Great Spirit,

Hips genetically inclined to sway to the Earth’s rotation,

She has the ability to control gangs, build projects, build up instead of down,

Momentum similar to Muhammad Ali from Cassius Clay,

Not Black, White, Yellow, or Red,

As her father of the Pen, mother of paper,

I couldn’t stop projecting visions of her footprints,

It was a gut feeling, beats heard belonging to her heart,

I asked for a pardon, she gazed upon strangers,

Her stomach the outline of a treasure map, freckles hiding a gorgeous sunny day,

She rose her arms, spread 10 fingers, intuition, no strings, minimum attachment, no jewels or G Strings, just a slender physique,

Born, blessed, succeed…

Her chest held the heart of a beating world,

Every stance, flesh never betrayed, as she covered the Pacific, Atlantic, East and West, New York to California,

One expected her shoulders to lean,

After multiple positions, kitchen counter, shower head, laundry room washer, living room carpet, and hallway leaning,

Her hands in the air, eyes collapsed, legs lifted,

It was her grace that saved,

Her lips danced upon sunrises, golden rays left at sunsets,

She never slipped, her feet always traveling,

Wishing for tears to match the paper,

She was a dancer, public figure, homeless woman preaching,

If the unintelligent are questioning,

She’s my blood, sweat, and tears,

Sheets of shredded years,

Simple…

She’s “a lady”,

One of a kind, law enforcement can’t trick,

She’s a pure kid,

She’s a lady meant to grow old,

Her hands wrapped themselves around my pen and paper,

She left a red kiss imprint,

No matter if fresh off the boat, or under house arrest,

She visited me in One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest,

We made love on the prison interrogation room table,

What does this mean…

Keep working…
Keep bleeding…
Keep loving…
Keep writing…

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