i know that i should have more pride than this,
but i would give my last bottle
to gain the syrupy sound of my name made wealthy,
slurred between your silver tongue and ivory teeth
you breath my syllables
through the softest of coin-pursed lips
and i reel from the richness of eight letters
turned to sixteen ounces of sugar
pulled through plastic straws and dollar bills
so my identity burns up velvet veins into the mines
of minds as yet unharvested
i am the cave of wonders and revelations,
and you are my aladdinboy:
i taste my birth-label
in the spice of incense choking your aristo-nose.
fortune wheels are turned upright for you;
i want you to purchase my vowels and my consonants.
my name might belong only to me,
but i have never wanted to be quite so used.