I look at myself in the mirror, clad in loin cloth
What we call underwear, and I see a large bronze man

Who wants a little less fat and a little more bat in a perfect world.
I’m not perfect. For once, I don’t wear my undies on the outside

I’m not a super hero nor am I villain. I’m a poet
Who clothes his crotch with a little loin cloth

And gives imagination to the third eye and a beholder called bibliophile
One who pokes around for a little peak

And beauty is in the undies I wear, on the out of a little corpse
An aphorism that short is sweet. Like a little poem

That is hung from paper, and swells a good distance
To become a magic stick. And magic is in

How magnified the words are from the loin cloth to the heart.
When empires leave behind ruins that become

Tourist attractions in memoriam. And poems are only strategically placed
Words, hiding a little pink flower on a peduncle, her soul

And those poems called briefs are the launching
Pads of beauty, unclothed of their immaculate brevity.

Leaves of the fig tree will one fated day find their shade
Under canopies of Laurels. And my loin clothes will hang

On walls of parchment to be worshipped like crucifixes.
Resurrection is my prerogative, religion will be my legacy.

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