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First, I caught sight of her wig
… just about platinum blonde
Notably purchased from a cornered
One-stop beauty shop,
All wrong for the deep dark dolled up
Tone, her naturally black skin
Flat flowing extensions
Perfectly matched the golden
Highlights pasted upon the brows above her eyes
Golden optical rims shaped her sunglasses
Made to wear in a smoke-filled, murky gray room?
Quite tight, old gold panels painted her torso and
Stilled just above the sparkling bauble emerging from the top
Of her belly button

I hadn’t acknowledged her feet when my anger surfaced…
I had had my fill of pretense
Of shame
Of what America had drilled into her mind
Into women everywhere…me
Of dissatisfaction with birthright
Of a need to change
What’s unchangeable?
I was torn up by affliction and chagrin
By downing naturalism…beating the sleazy self to death

And out of nowhere, raging reggae beats switched my mind
Over to second sight,
When what was beneath her get up could no longer be contained
By deceptive adornments, decked out trappings, sharp looks
Beats, bass, classic club smacks lifted her swinging form
Nearly threatening the stick of the wig
Her neck milled about to the wind of different melodies
It loosened her shirt, giving freedom way into her hips
It got into her pants
Blue denim became silk-plastered to her round and round and around her
Moving like nothing human
Like something and everything spirit
Warrior, lover, rite of passage-er, possessor
Body ebbed and flowed and stopped and melted again
Legs spiraling clock and counter in separate directions
Once toward where I begin
And therein
Lied her bona fide form
Her preconditioned beauty

She was not dancing for the salivating men who stood alongside her
Spotlight on the floor
She danced for herself, her freedom
For her solace, for finding a place where
Thoughts, concepts, and torturing words
Would not make headway
Where she would beat the odds
against a week’s worth ration of rubbish
…if but for a moment
in a Philadelphia Night Club

Bravo, baby

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The following comments are for "Show Girl"
by innarae

you show, girl
love most that what this girl shows is her “bona fide form”, her spirit-self beneath the blonde wig… love that “show” has less to do with outward exposure than it does with insight… love how poet self goes from simply observing, to recognising, to understanding… and love most of all the triumph and defiance of this recognition…

here, shown is really seen. this is wonderful, pulsating poem. a pleasure to read.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: February 3, 2008 )

luv you all!
...for taking the time to read and enjoy...

( Posted by: innarae [Member] On: February 3, 2008 )

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