Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do.
Hebrews 4:13
When first I met you, girly-girl you gave my hormones quite a whirl believing I had found the pearl, Porneia . . .
The shell was richer than your charm assuring me you meant no harm my stroke of luck: you clasped my arm, Porneia.
You called me with that sultry voice and made me think I had no choice, Porneia.
You glistened in a fantasy of pixillating pink HD. Your flesh tone’s ever-changing hue sure made me want to do it to that someone just beyond my view, Porneia.
I emptied every magazine in search of angles yet unseen. The angels fell upon my screen, Porneia.
More I tasted, more I needed— yet the bed remained unseeded waiting for your rose to bloom, recurring passions to resume in contemplation of your womb, Porneia.
Exposed: your jaded artifice, that bright celestial orifice, gynecologic precipice—Porneia.
I took you for a worldly muse dead mistress of the thousand views; my carnal will could not refuse, Porneia. With your deceit I came to grips; you represent true love’s eclipse— the spurt of passion died in drips, Porneia.
Alas, our book of love must end. The final chapter’s pages bend; the bookmarks, now deleted, send each one, a flower to your grave. My sinful soul you could not save, Porneia.
Oh what has come between us, princess? Now your rare allure evinces fearful alarm, the urge to flee— our love was never meant to be. Thus ends it all twixt me and thee, Porneia.
No me diga— la nena ‘ta pregnant again?
(I thought she decided no more after Tito…)
she’s almost 16, and she dropped out of school.
(It might be the spice in abuela’s sofrito…)
There’s one in the oven and two in the stroller
Oh nubile Boricua, what gives— ¿Qué sería?
if life is the masa and birth is the bakery
yours is a virtual panadería…
Some pulse in your short-shorts, those flexible hips
under tropical rhythm of lewd reggaeton
seems to summon the sperm from your lover’s abundance
whenever you find yourselves home and alone.
Where’s your man? Who’s the daddy? Why didn’t he stay?
your gaze is unsettling, harshly pathetic.
You sad Betty-Boop: are you waiting in vain
for your man—or your period? How unpoetic…
This life lived on welfare, entitled, enslaved
with your babies at grandma’s and you with your phone
is a taxpayer’s nightmare and teenage recurrence
(but you’re busy texting some drama unknown…)
Mamita herself looks more like your hermana
She started this game even earlier, too
When you stand, side by side, in your thongs and pijama
it’s hard to be sure who is who.
(the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute)
Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the dirty water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them, these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots
Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their loins with priestly garments, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight
Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them, these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day
Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.
Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming
“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them, these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”
Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh urine from a heifer’s bladder
for they knew that it was somafrom a holy cow.
Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying
“These are Gods – worship them, worship them, these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”
THE MORAL:slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp
Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.
“This is God –worship Him, worship Him – this is God – let us worship Him now…”
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