An Essay on Beauty

I always disapproved of bringing computers to class. This is Marlboro, not a thousand-kid university where you can play flash games during discussions and be met with indifference from your fellows.

However, having enrolled in a Digital Multimedia course this semester, I've had to refine my viewpoint on bringing a computer to class. Because, you know, I'm taking a computer class.

So now, when things in class get boring or begin to fly over my anachronistic head, I turn away from the lecture on computers and begin to spend independent time with my computer. And so this blog entry was born.



An Essay On Beauty

short hairs that form a crescent around the knee and curve towards the ankle like ocean waves, just barely overlapping each other, the color of earth.

dirt under the short fingernails of a gardener whose hands are thickly calloused in all the places that brush against hoe and shovel.

red lipstick that has been dabbed off to near transparency by the cloth of a thousand kisses from a lover

curls like ribbons, curls like boat wakes, curls like rosebuds

breasts the color of unpolluted coffee that slope like mountain peaks

breasts as heavy and pale as fog above the mountains that swing in dance and rise with breath after exertion

long male fingers with knuckles that stick out like adam’s apples, resting on the stomach of a woman with child

eyes like night skies, with the glimmer of a single star that shifts in a sped-up universe of turns of the chin

plastic pink nails with blue glitter, falling off the fingers of a little girl

uncompromised nature, where no changes are needed or welcomed, and the body born with is the body lived with and loved

fire hair, smoke hair, hair as black as embers and white as heat

tightly curled hair that runs down the vulva and reaches, like thickly packed branches, down upper thighs

eyelashes that are wishes and toes and fingers used for counting in grade school

the moon that holds the weight of a million sentiments

the woman that holds the weight of a million ambitions

and the god that holds the weight of expectations

and the arms that hold an infant who is sleeping