A Reversal of a Popular Soliloquy

Alejandro Vasquez

The staccato stiletto march

of power, now the pearls fly in an arch

while the perfume drizzles from on high.

 

I am man: the lying lust that

foams to rot.

A pair of hoarse girders.

 

An empire I am bound to, tied to my first-skin and pulls

into that piss pile of the unperfumed,

to rulers.

 

Atop the sweet brunette woods and ovarian musk

That swaddled the air at my birth; but not me.

I’m lost like a girl’s mind.

 

The light would cut clear as man’s crudity.

A pristine transcription, it would distill me

crystal drop by crystal drop.

 

That is the clarity unreachable from this male coil.

Monstrous meat: inert, inane

palm trees of my legs terrify me

 

with their infinite weight.

Goddess, from your terrace glorious. Ladies lifting light:

exonerate me.

 

Of zit, pus, phallus, I am too ashamed

to verbalize what I lack.

Sweep me into pink oblivion.

 

Matriarchs, Mother,

manicure my marauding masculinity to

rosy touch. Beatify me, Saint Sylvia!

 

These cries, shrill man.

Dreams, where I am the birthing hips

of creation.

 

Dreams are all they are.

I wallow on my throne of adamantine oak

and pride.

 

Here I am simply, weakly,

man.

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