My fingers move
Holding the line maker
That conforms blackness to culturally accepted pictures
To pierce the mascaraed lens of your eye,
To pierce the grease stained soul of your eye,
To pierce the skeptical wrinkle of your eye.
If poets wrote the laws of nature,
Men would fly.
If poets wrote the laws of physics,
Women would wear stars in their hair.
If poets wrote poetry,
Maybe each day would be a little less like Guernica.