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my flesh is a disguise
the weeder course for the pursuit of a degree
in who i am and why i am and what i do and how
so that if you take one look
and see only the one thing--and it stops you--
i don't have to bother sharing
my thoughts on politics, my short stories, my grasshopper joke
because in the long run
you'd never be worth my time
if my tits invade your personal bubble of space
my flesh is a machine
carrying me everywhere your flesh carries you.
it even goes to the gym.
it pushes down on the legg-press
with the ease of a game of tiddly-winks
white the waifs around me
struggle
to move half the air pressure
in twice the time
my flesh is an emblem
there is no mistaking me
for anything but female
and the only angle on my body
is the perpendicular intersection
where my middle finger
rises from my fist
when somebody suggests
that my only angle
is the right angle of my legs
while sitting on the couch
my flesh is a rebellion
in place of a collection of safety-pins
on the hem of a punk rock shirt
saying
this is who i am
i am not what you are
and you can be drawn to or repelled by my
metaphorical blue hair-- roundness--excess
but i cling to it because i choose it
my fashion of skin
and because you do not
my flesh is a sanctuary
a haven for warm support
love given freely
to those who seek
a firm embrace camoflaged
with the softness of my arms
my flesh is a cornocopia
a gathering of fruits
a boquet of luscious smells and tastes
succulent, juicy-sweet
ready for harvest
my own thanksgiving feast--and yours
to celebrate the fullness of the moon
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