If beauty could smell, would it be like ripe banana peelings or like the fart of the angels or like
the sweat of two strangers after an erotic dance?
If beauty had a price, would it be a smuggled diamond from Sierra Leone, or Angelo’s stolen painting, or a second chance?
If beauty is a star of the night, how do the blind learn to say a prayer or what makes a starfish not to swim in the sky?
If beauty is pain, do tweezed eyebrows cry?
Beauty is a bulb onion shaped ass that stretches your imagination,
pouting lips that can speak lies but can kiss you truly,
hips and curves that will distort the shape of your thoughts,
eyelashes that blink you would think they are curtains to the windows to your very soul,
sharp nipples that look like dark droplets on a couple of chocolate balloons,
Beauty is a story because it is based on character,
Beauty is hair, they said, but then I asked a bald chemotherapy patient about the essence
and she told me
is a breath
That life is beautiful in her withered petals and broken rainbows
That beauty is morning rays of the sun on the face of the green
That beauty is shaking what your mama gave you –
your pretty head and you keep it up like Tupac said
Because you are a beautiful woman
And you are proud
And like a sexy alien, your beauty is out of this world.
And like death or yawning in a vacuum, your beauty is breathtaking.
And like a dead man’s wrist, your beauty is timeless.
And like unlit cigarettes, your beauty is unmatched.
Like God’s mantra, your beauty is a vinyl –
that inner music
that re-re-refuses to s-s-scratch when
the heart-beat backspinzzzzz…
in the hands of a DJ called time.
Beauty is love served without a menu.