Ode to the Monstrosity of My Novel/Treatise Te amo. ( I love you) Te quiero. ( I love you) Pues, (Well) you tell it like it is. You are my shadow self ,and I am loving every minute of it. The way you pollute the page! Pollute me. Pollute me always. I am yours. And, yes, people liked my poetry before, but I love your nonchalance. I love your lightheartedness. I love your name calling. I love your ragamuffiness. I love how you build to destroy. The sand is your palette. I am yours. You are mine. I am a vessel. I am a connoisseur. Every time I write with you I taste the blood of redemption. Give me more. Mystical communions come seldom in an era. Perhaps, I am 3,000 miles away from your theory. Perhaps, I am the theory incarnate. For I have wandered the streets to find you, my dear shadow. I have accosted many a namesayer because of you. I have delved in disrespect because of you. I have been murdered by your words. And, still I rise. And, still I cling. And, still I shall cling some more because I love, love, love the way you write. So say it well, mistress. Say it well, Bodhisattva, for I am listening. I am an adherent of your philosophy. And they say you can not take me anywhere. They say, also, that this should be the end of the poem, but still I write. You have delved in disrespect only because you are an alien on a hamstring. And, still I rise. I rise from the battery of insults and misunderstandings. I rise from normalcy and entrepreneurial qualities. I rise because you have picked me up from the floor of redemption. And, still I cling. I cling. I cling. I cling. They say you can not take me anywhere. And, yet, I get up and write some more. La purificacion del Corazon es nuestro sentir. (The purification of the heart is our way of being.) I bathe in disrespect as Bathsheba bathes. I don’t care if you have a dark side, King David. I still love your house. I still love your dance all the way to the throne-Samba! And, for all those who believe me, I shall say the same thing: that it was samba that saved me and made me king. That should be the end of the poem and still I write. I write for emancipation. I write for the end of classism. I write because I am able to write about tour de force. There are many an alien out there looking for their chance to dance with me. So, light my cigarette and poor me some wine. There are those who would rather paint what I have written. I am a heiress blind. I am Constantinople all over again deciding what will be let in- deciding what will be let out. It is the fornication of my fire that they are deciding upon. Shall she wear contraceptive? Will they speak the truth? Or is power their only hamstring on the wire? I am bird on the limb who is able to swim. Ode to my shadow. Ode to my redemption. Ode to the holy spirit! And now I want to rhyme. I told you. You can not take me anywhere! Ode to my novel/treatise. By Jackie Lopez
Posted on: Sun, 28 Jul 2013 19:47:05 +0000
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