Ph - A Measure of Corrosiveness: Being Phat in Amerika

Ph - A Measure of Corrosiveness: Being Phat in Amerika

I look down,

steaming, warm, happy,

after a hot shower,

and can’t see my penis.

Like my mother prophesied,

to that skinny little boy,

who ate those watermelon seeds,

I am huge.

Is that a watermelon in my tummy?

I think not,

just

phat!

Look at me,

look at my stat,

I’m phat!

51, 5’10” hovering gently a round 300 pounds.

HUGE gut before me, large rounded phace, huge arms,

yet ... padded warm hands, legs muscled from cherished walks, small butt.

Yet am I who you see? That phat phifty-one year old?

Or am I that skinny little boy in the picture,

with that phar away look,

lost in books of dreams,

the little boy who who gave up lunch money, went hungry,

to buy adventure books

at the Scholastic School book Sale?

Am I that skinny teen-ager on the phront porch in his rented prom tux?

Am I that picture of a young, slightly overweight, naval officer with the warm eyes,

who every morning at 5AM in Officer Candidate School had to Run with the other phat boys?

I’ve been skinny and phat, I know.

It is who I am, and what I make of who I am, that matters.

I am more beautiful now than ever before in my life! I know that.

Does your soul eyes see my beauty?

or, only, the phat man in front of you?