When You Want to Scream, But Your Dorm Has No Bathtubs, So You Go to The Swimming Pool, But Everyone Can Hear You, So You Go to The Railroad Tracks and Wait For a Train, But You’re In North Philadelphia and 3 People Are Walking Towards You and You’re Probably Going to Get Stabbed
Just so you know,
you’re still listed on my Snapchat, like a stupid green button
that won’t disappear.
The world has told me I need to sit down
and say Seattle’s too far for hitchhiking.
They laugh like it’s funny, like it’s funny that I miss fresh air
scurrying crawfish beneath moss-covered rocks,
looking for glassy-eyed lizards
underwater.
I guess the real joke is that nobody told me
college was an option.
The reason I came,
that’s gotten old. Like most people. Like most people,
it’s moved on,
but nobody said that wouldn’t be OK.
Underwater here, under a city,
I’m sinking boat by boat. My sail’s facing the smelly blue sky,
something so alluring, between trash, college students
and a giant mass of air pollution.
I haven’t thought about what it’s like
on the East Coast;
where I come from, we’re not sick of the weather,
but it’s cold, and rainy,
and quite obvious that winter never ends.
You’re always freezing for something.
So it’s OK if you don’t want me at your house show,
I’m playing bass tonight, tomorrow, next week,
next month,
and in a couple years,
don’t cry
you’ll be hosting my band anyway.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Massacre
Massacre
Massacre is a dead metaphor that is eating my friends, eating them without salt. They were poets and have become Reporters With Borders; they were already tired and now they’re even more tired. ‘They cross the bridge at daybreak fleet of foot’ and die with no phone coverage. I see them through night vision goggles and follow the heat of their bodies in the darkness; there they are, fleeing from it even as they run towards it, surrendering to this huge massage. Massacre is their true mother, while genocide is no more than a classical poem written by intellectual pensioned-off generals. Genocide isn’t appropriate for my friends, as it’s an organised collective action and organised collective actions remind them of the Left that let them down.
Massacre wakes up early, bathes my friends in cold water and blood, washes their underclothes and makes them bread and tea, then teaches them a little about the hunt. Massacre is more compassionate to my friends than the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Massacre opened the door to them when other doors were closed, and called them by their names when news reports were looking for numbers. Massacre is the only one to grant them asylum regardless of their backgrounds; their economic circumstances don’t bother Massacre, nor does Massacre care whether they are intellectuals or poets, Massacre looks at things from a neutral angle; Massacre has the same dead features as them, the same names as their widowed wives, passes like them through the countryside and the suburbs and appears suddenly like them in breaking news. Massacre resembles my friends, but always arrives before them in faraway villages and children’s schools.
Massacre is a dead metaphor that comes out of the television and eats my friends without a single pinch of salt.
Translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham
Massacre is a dead metaphor that is eating my friends, eating them without salt. They were poets and have become Reporters With Borders; they were already tired and now they’re even more tired. ‘They cross the bridge at daybreak fleet of foot’ and die with no phone coverage. I see them through night vision goggles and follow the heat of their bodies in the darkness; there they are, fleeing from it even as they run towards it, surrendering to this huge massage. Massacre is their true mother, while genocide is no more than a classical poem written by intellectual pensioned-off generals. Genocide isn’t appropriate for my friends, as it’s an organised collective action and organised collective actions remind them of the Left that let them down.
Massacre wakes up early, bathes my friends in cold water and blood, washes their underclothes and makes them bread and tea, then teaches them a little about the hunt. Massacre is more compassionate to my friends than the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Massacre opened the door to them when other doors were closed, and called them by their names when news reports were looking for numbers. Massacre is the only one to grant them asylum regardless of their backgrounds; their economic circumstances don’t bother Massacre, nor does Massacre care whether they are intellectuals or poets, Massacre looks at things from a neutral angle; Massacre has the same dead features as them, the same names as their widowed wives, passes like them through the countryside and the suburbs and appears suddenly like them in breaking news. Massacre resembles my friends, but always arrives before them in faraway villages and children’s schools.
Massacre is a dead metaphor that comes out of the television and eats my friends without a single pinch of salt.
Translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham
How I Became...
How I became…
Her grief fell from the balcony and broke into pieces, so she needed a new grief. When I went with her to the market the prices were unreal, so I advised her to buy a used grief. We found one in excellent condition although it was a bit big. As the vendor told us, it belonged to a young poet who had killed himself the previous summer. She liked this grief so we decided to take it. We argued with the vendor over the price and he said he’d give us an angst dating from the sixties as a free gift if we bought the grief. We agreed, and I was happy with this unexpected angst. She sensed this and said ‘It’s yours’. I took it and put it in my bag and we went off. In the evening I remembered it and took it out of the bag and examined it closely. It was high quality and in excellent condition despite half a century of use. The vendor must have been unaware of its value otherwise he wouldn’t have given it to us in exchange for buying a young poet’s low quality grief. The thing that pleased me most about it was that it was existentialist angst, meticulously crafted and containing details of extraordinary subtlety and beauty. It must have belonged to an intellectual with encyclopedic knowledge or a former prisoner. I began to use it and insomnia became my constant companion. I became an enthusiastic supporter of peace negotiations and stopped visiting relatives. There were increasing numbers of memoirs in my bookshelves and I no longer voiced my opinion, except on rare occasions. Human beings became more precious to me than nations and I began to feel a general ennui, but what I noticed most was that I had become a poet.
Her grief fell from the balcony and broke into pieces, so she needed a new grief. When I went with her to the market the prices were unreal, so I advised her to buy a used grief. We found one in excellent condition although it was a bit big. As the vendor told us, it belonged to a young poet who had killed himself the previous summer. She liked this grief so we decided to take it. We argued with the vendor over the price and he said he’d give us an angst dating from the sixties as a free gift if we bought the grief. We agreed, and I was happy with this unexpected angst. She sensed this and said ‘It’s yours’. I took it and put it in my bag and we went off. In the evening I remembered it and took it out of the bag and examined it closely. It was high quality and in excellent condition despite half a century of use. The vendor must have been unaware of its value otherwise he wouldn’t have given it to us in exchange for buying a young poet’s low quality grief. The thing that pleased me most about it was that it was existentialist angst, meticulously crafted and containing details of extraordinary subtlety and beauty. It must have belonged to an intellectual with encyclopedic knowledge or a former prisoner. I began to use it and insomnia became my constant companion. I became an enthusiastic supporter of peace negotiations and stopped visiting relatives. There were increasing numbers of memoirs in my bookshelves and I no longer voiced my opinion, except on rare occasions. Human beings became more precious to me than nations and I began to feel a general ennui, but what I noticed most was that I had become a poet.
End of Winter
Over the still world, a bird calls
waking solitary among black boughs.
You wanted to be born; I let you be born.
When has my grief ever gotten
in the way of your pleasure?
Plunging ahead
into the dark and light at the same time
eager for sensation
as though you were some new thing, wanting
to express yourselves
all brilliance, all vivacity
never thinking
this would cost you anything,
never imagining the sound of my voice
as anything but part of you—
you won't hear it in the other world,
not clearly again,
not in birdcall or human cry,
not the clear sound, only
persistent echoing
in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—
the one continuous line
that binds us to each other.
waking solitary among black boughs.
You wanted to be born; I let you be born.
When has my grief ever gotten
in the way of your pleasure?
Plunging ahead
into the dark and light at the same time
eager for sensation
as though you were some new thing, wanting
to express yourselves
all brilliance, all vivacity
never thinking
this would cost you anything,
never imagining the sound of my voice
as anything but part of you—
you won't hear it in the other world,
not clearly again,
not in birdcall or human cry,
not the clear sound, only
persistent echoing
in all sound that means good-bye, good-bye—
the one continuous line
that binds us to each other.
Closings
1
“Always Be Closing,” Liam told us—
abc of real estate, used cars,
and poetry. Liam the dandy
loved Brooks Brothers shirts, double-breasted
suits, bespoke shoes, and linen jackets.
On the day Liam and Tree married
in our backyard, Liam and I wore
Chuck’s burgundy boho-prep high-tops
that Liam bought on Fifth Avenue.
2
When the rain started, we moved indoors
and Liam read a Quartet aloud.
T.S. Eliot turned old and frail
at sixty, pale, preparing for death.
Then poets of new generations
died—Frank O’Hara first, then Jim Wright
with throat cancer in a Bronx hospice,
Sylvia Plath beside the oven,
Thom Gunn of an overdose, Denise
3
Levertov, Bob Creeley, Jane Kenyon...
In a New York bar, Liam told me
eccentric, affectionate stories
about a road trip in Tree’s country
of Montana, and the joy they felt
in the abundance of their marriage.
At Bennington Tree said, “Fourteen years
after the wedding in your backyard,
I love Liam with my entire heart.”
4
Liam’s face changed quickly as he spoke,
eyes and mouth erupting with gusto
as he improvised his outrageous,
cheerful, inventive obscenities.
When I first met him—I expounded
at a young poet’s do—his bearded
face was handsome and expressionless.
He would not defer to a poet
fifty years old! After a few months
5
he was revising my lines for me,
making the metaphors I couldn’t.
Even now, working at poems, I
imagine for a moment Liam
disassembling them. A year ago
he watched the progress of age turn me
skeletal, pale flesh hanging loosely
in folds from my arms, and thin rib-bones
like grates above a sagging belly.
6
His body would never resemble
my body. Four or five times a week
we wrote letters back and forth, talking
about class structure, about how Tree
took charge over the Academy
of American Poets, about
poems and new attacks on free speech...
When I won a notorious prize,
Liam sent me eighty-one notions
7
about projects I might undertake.
Number fifty-six instructed me:
“Urge poets to commit suicide.”
His whole life he spoke of suicide
lightly, when he wasn’t preserving
the First Amendment from Jesse Helms,
or enduring two colon cancers,
or watching films, or chatting with Tree,
or undergoing heart surgeries.
8
If he walked their dog Keeper one block,
he had to take nitroglycerin.
When Jane was dying, Liam and Tree
drove up to say goodbye. I wheelchaired
Jane to a pile of books by her chair
to find the color plate of Caillebotte’s
shadowy kitchen garden at Yerres
for the jacket of Otherwise, when
Tree would design it. I think of Jane’s
9
horror if she were alive to know
that on August fifteenth Liam pulled
the shotgun’s trigger. The night before,
wearing a tux over a yellow
silk shirt, he danced with Tree once again,
before bed and the morning’s murder.
He left Tree alone and desolate
but without anger. Tree knew Liam
did what he planned and needed to do.
“Always Be Closing,” Liam told us—
abc of real estate, used cars,
and poetry. Liam the dandy
loved Brooks Brothers shirts, double-breasted
suits, bespoke shoes, and linen jackets.
On the day Liam and Tree married
in our backyard, Liam and I wore
Chuck’s burgundy boho-prep high-tops
that Liam bought on Fifth Avenue.
2
When the rain started, we moved indoors
and Liam read a Quartet aloud.
T.S. Eliot turned old and frail
at sixty, pale, preparing for death.
Then poets of new generations
died—Frank O’Hara first, then Jim Wright
with throat cancer in a Bronx hospice,
Sylvia Plath beside the oven,
Thom Gunn of an overdose, Denise
3
Levertov, Bob Creeley, Jane Kenyon...
In a New York bar, Liam told me
eccentric, affectionate stories
about a road trip in Tree’s country
of Montana, and the joy they felt
in the abundance of their marriage.
At Bennington Tree said, “Fourteen years
after the wedding in your backyard,
I love Liam with my entire heart.”
4
Liam’s face changed quickly as he spoke,
eyes and mouth erupting with gusto
as he improvised his outrageous,
cheerful, inventive obscenities.
When I first met him—I expounded
at a young poet’s do—his bearded
face was handsome and expressionless.
He would not defer to a poet
fifty years old! After a few months
5
he was revising my lines for me,
making the metaphors I couldn’t.
Even now, working at poems, I
imagine for a moment Liam
disassembling them. A year ago
he watched the progress of age turn me
skeletal, pale flesh hanging loosely
in folds from my arms, and thin rib-bones
like grates above a sagging belly.
6
His body would never resemble
my body. Four or five times a week
we wrote letters back and forth, talking
about class structure, about how Tree
took charge over the Academy
of American Poets, about
poems and new attacks on free speech...
When I won a notorious prize,
Liam sent me eighty-one notions
7
about projects I might undertake.
Number fifty-six instructed me:
“Urge poets to commit suicide.”
His whole life he spoke of suicide
lightly, when he wasn’t preserving
the First Amendment from Jesse Helms,
or enduring two colon cancers,
or watching films, or chatting with Tree,
or undergoing heart surgeries.
8
If he walked their dog Keeper one block,
he had to take nitroglycerin.
When Jane was dying, Liam and Tree
drove up to say goodbye. I wheelchaired
Jane to a pile of books by her chair
to find the color plate of Caillebotte’s
shadowy kitchen garden at Yerres
for the jacket of Otherwise, when
Tree would design it. I think of Jane’s
9
horror if she were alive to know
that on August fifteenth Liam pulled
the shotgun’s trigger. The night before,
wearing a tux over a yellow
silk shirt, he danced with Tree once again,
before bed and the morning’s murder.
He left Tree alone and desolate
but without anger. Tree knew Liam
did what he planned and needed to do.
Waving Goodbye
I wanted to know what it was like before we
had voices and before we had bare fingers and before we
had minds to move us through our actions
and tears to help us over our feelings,
so I drove my daughter through the snow to meet her friend
and filled her car with suitcases and hugged her
as an animal would, pressing my forehead against her,
walking in circles, moaning, touching her cheek,
and turned my head after them as an animal would,
watching helplessly as they drove over the ruts,
her smiling face and her small hand just visible
over the giant pillows and coat hangers
as they made their turn into the empty highway.
Movement Song
I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five o'clock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
watching
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.
moving away from me
beyond anger or failure
your face in the evening schools of longing
through mornings of wish and ripen
we were always saying goodbye
in the blood in the bone over coffee
before dashing for elevators going
in opposite directions
without goodbyes.
Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof
as the maker of legends
nor as a trap
door to that world
where black and white clericals
hang on the edge of beauty in five o'clock elevators
twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh
and now
there is someone to speak for them
moving away from me into tomorrows
morning of wish and ripen
your goodbye is a promise of lightning
in the last angels hand
unwelcome and warning
the sands have run out against us
we were rewarded by journeys
away from each other
into desire
into mornings alone
where excuse and endurance mingle
conceiving decision.
Do not remember me
as disaster
nor as the keeper of secrets
I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars
watching
you move slowly out of my bed
saying we cannot waste time
only ourselves.
Leave Taking
I do not know where either of us can turn
Just at first, waking from the sleep of each other.
I do not know how we can bear
The river struck by the gold plummet of the moon,
Or many trees shaken together in the darkness.
We shall wish not to be alone
And that love were not dispersed and set free—
Though you defeat me,
And I be heavy upon you.
But like earth heaped over the heart
Is love grown perfect.
Like a shell over the beat of life
Is love perfect to the last.
So let it be the same
Whether we turn to the dark or to the kiss of another;
Let us know this for leavetaking,
That I may not be heavy upon you,
That you may blind me no more.
Hum for the Bolt
Hum for the Bolt
BY JAMAAL MAY
It could of course be silk. Fifty yards or so
of the next closest thing to water to the touch,
or it could just as easily be a shaft of wood
crumpling a man struck between spaulder and helm.
But now, with the rain making a noisy erasure
of this town, it is the flash that arrives
and leaves at nearly the same moment. It’s what I want
to be in this moment, in this doorway,
because much as I’d love to be the silk-shimmer
against the curve of anyone’s arm,
as brutal and impeccable as it’d be to soar
from a crossbow with a whistle and have a man
switch off upon my arrival, it is nothing
compared to that moment when I eat the dark,
draw shadows in quick strokes across wall
and start a tongue counting
down to thunder. That counting that says,
I am this far. I am this close.
When I Look At You Without Speaking, I'm Drawing A Map
I’M DRAWING A MAP WHEN I LOOK AT YOU WITHOUT SPEAKING
………………………………………………….–for Javier
………………………………………………….–for Javier
Love not as origin
………………………………………………but as exodus. A parting and then
………………………another. Dust of your country
………………………………………rolling off like sweat or my name from your tongue
………in the time you loved me. That autumn
………………mosquitos ripened in the walls of your apartment
and made a border fence on my skin.
………………………………………………but as exodus. A parting and then
………………………another. Dust of your country
………………………………………rolling off like sweat or my name from your tongue
………in the time you loved me. That autumn
………………mosquitos ripened in the walls of your apartment
and made a border fence on my skin.
I became the robber whom you fed windows
………………………………fed me frame after frame: your silhouette
………………………………………sleeping, silhouette cutting mangoes
………………………silhouette with other ghosts—
………………………………fed me frame after frame: your silhouette
………………………………………sleeping, silhouette cutting mangoes
………………………silhouette with other ghosts—
………………Twice you were deported
………………………………before you made it to Nogales, alone and only nine
………………………years old, saguaro shadows
………pantomime. The owls flex against the sky
………………………tiger sifts its stripes of sun and absence
making it day then night. I erase
………………………………before you made it to Nogales, alone and only nine
………………………years old, saguaro shadows
………pantomime. The owls flex against the sky
………………………tiger sifts its stripes of sun and absence
making it day then night. I erase
………………and picture you as I always do,
………………………………………more windfall than friend, more brother to me than fig.
………………………………………more windfall than friend, more brother to me than fig.
Home como ancla, no como cadenas, rather you as a worm, hooked
………………………in a little fishing village by the sea
………away from the desert calling
………………………the iguanas Mother, though they could give you no suck.
I imagine you back in El Salvador,
………………………in a little fishing village by the sea
………away from the desert calling
………………………the iguanas Mother, though they could give you no suck.
I imagine you back in El Salvador,
………gambling at a funeral, dice stirring up dirt.
The legs on a pair of ghost roses clipped and joined to your lapel.
………………You won’t die now but you’ll be disappointed you didn’t
………on a mushroom trip in a car of friends,
………………………one Muskogean morning, wheels and wheels
………………and not a scream will break
………………………………through your lobster grin. Don’t lie and say
The legs on a pair of ghost roses clipped and joined to your lapel.
………………You won’t die now but you’ll be disappointed you didn’t
………on a mushroom trip in a car of friends,
………………………one Muskogean morning, wheels and wheels
………………and not a scream will break
………………………………through your lobster grin. Don’t lie and say
………………………………………you’ve been here and loved this soil.
………I am unfamiliar with any other images: you on a hill
………………………………in an ocean of tall grasses. You inside Alaska
………………………………………………with ice like chocolate around your mouth.
………………………You in Montana under paperweight sky, land
………………………………………………flat as a pulse.
………I am unfamiliar with any other images: you on a hill
………………………………in an ocean of tall grasses. You inside Alaska
………………………………………………with ice like chocolate around your mouth.
………………………You in Montana under paperweight sky, land
………………………………………………flat as a pulse.
………………You plant kisses here
………………………………………………but don’t weed them.
………………………………………………but don’t weed them.
………Your bear-mouth
………………………leaves raspberries in my broken skin.
………………………………………………………You’re playing
………………………hard to get, Friend, and it’s getting hard on me
………not to vacate my skirt and lift my thighs in this dry bed
of burned-up rivers. My neck is breathless unfurling
………………lungs into a map of where you’ve been.
………………………leaves raspberries in my broken skin.
………………………………………………………You’re playing
………………………hard to get, Friend, and it’s getting hard on me
………not to vacate my skirt and lift my thighs in this dry bed
of burned-up rivers. My neck is breathless unfurling
………………lungs into a map of where you’ve been.
………………………So if immigrating is loving two women,
………………………………which one of us do you dream in?
………What’s another woman to the other woman
………………………………except an extra pair of hands to bring in the harvest
………………………………which one of us do you dream in?
………What’s another woman to the other woman
………………………………except an extra pair of hands to bring in the harvest
………………but I can’t take you home.
………………………………………………………………………………I’m not a coyote
………………………………………………………………………………I’m not a coyote
that way. I’m the girl you guided through the reeds
………………………………………………down to the loading docks. We lie on our backs
………………………watch October get cut to pieces by helicopter.
………………………………………………down to the loading docks. We lie on our backs
………………………watch October get cut to pieces by helicopter.
………………………………………………I say, look out over the vastness and forgive it all.
………………In sleep last night, I pulled three boats ashore into your port. See the
………………………………rope burns, the labor
………………………of trying to bring what you love close enough
to tie down and then ride out
………………again onto the waves
assuring the land animal that appears in all your poems,
………………………………………………this time the mule doesn’t drown.
………………………………rope burns, the labor
………………………of trying to bring what you love close enough
to tie down and then ride out
………………again onto the waves
assuring the land animal that appears in all your poems,
………………………………………………this time the mule doesn’t drown.
………………………………………………This time I don’t keep a vigil until you return.
………………………This time you go and make it back to everyone.
And when we dream there aren’t oil drums.
………………………This time you go and make it back to everyone.
And when we dream there aren’t oil drums.
https://youtu.be/jyZuIP5x-tQ
Bitch
Now, when he and I meet, after all these years,
I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling.
He isn’t a trespasser anymore,
Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat.
My voice says, “Nice to see you,”
As the bitch starts to bark hysterically.
He isn’t an enemy now,
Where are your manners, I say, as I say,
“How are the children? They must be growing up.”
At a kind word from him, a look like the old days,
The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper.
She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe.
Down, girl! Keep your distance
Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain.
“Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him.
She slobbers and grovels.
After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal.
It’s just that she remembers how she came running
Each evening, when she heard his step;
How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly
Though he was absorbed in his paper;
Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen
Until he was ready to play.
But the small careless kindnesses
When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks,
Come back to her now, seem more important
Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal.
“It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say.
He couldn’t have taken you with him;
You were too demonstrative, too clumsy,
Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends.
“Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag
As I drag you off by the scruff,
Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.”
I say to the bitch inside me, don’t start growling.
He isn’t a trespasser anymore,
Just an old acquaintance tipping his hat.
My voice says, “Nice to see you,”
As the bitch starts to bark hysterically.
He isn’t an enemy now,
Where are your manners, I say, as I say,
“How are the children? They must be growing up.”
At a kind word from him, a look like the old days,
The bitch changes her tone; she begins to whimper.
She wants to snuggle up to him, to cringe.
Down, girl! Keep your distance
Or I’ll give you a taste of the choke-chain.
“Fine, I’m just fine,” I tell him.
She slobbers and grovels.
After all, I am her mistress. She is basically loyal.
It’s just that she remembers how she came running
Each evening, when she heard his step;
How she lay at his feet and looked up adoringly
Though he was absorbed in his paper;
Or, bored with her devotion, ordered her to the kitchen
Until he was ready to play.
But the small careless kindnesses
When he’d had a good day, or a couple of drinks,
Come back to her now, seem more important
Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal.
“It’s nice to know you are doing so well,” I say.
He couldn’t have taken you with him;
You were too demonstrative, too clumsy,
Not like the well-groomed pets of his new friends.
“Give my regards to your wife,” I say. You gag
As I drag you off by the scruff,
Saying, “Goodbye! Goodbye! Nice to have seen you again.”
With No Immediate Cause
every 3 minutes a woman is beaten
every five minutes a
woman is raped/every ten minutes
a lil girl is molested
yet i rode the subway today
i sat next to an old man who
may have beaten his old wife
3 minutes ago or 3 days/30 years ago
he might have sodomized his
daughter but i sat there
cuz the young men on the train
might beat some young women
later in the day or tomorrow
i might not shut my door fast
every 3 minutes it happens
some woman's innocence
rushes to her cheeks/pours from her mouth
like the betsy wetsy dolls have been torn
apart/their mouths
menses red & split/every
three minutes a shoulder
is jammed through plaster and the oven door/
chairs push thru the rib cage/hot water or
boiling sperm decorate her body
i rode the subway today
& bought a paper from a
man who might
have held his old lady onto
a hot pressing iron/i don't know
maybe he catches lil girls in the
park & rips open their behinds
with steel rods/i can't decide
what he might have done i only
know every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes every 10 minutes/so
i bought the paper
looking for the announcement
the discovery/of the dismembered
woman's body/the
victims have not all been
identified/today they are
naked and dead/refuse to
testify/one girl out of 10's not
coherent/i took the coffee
& spit it up/i found an
announcement/not the woman's
bloated body in the river/floating
not the child bleeding in the
59th street corridor/not the baby
broken on the floor/
there is some concern
that alleged battered women
might start to murder their
husbands & lovers with no
immediate cause'
i spit up i vomit i am screaming
we all have immediate cause
every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes
every 10 minutes
every day
women's bodies are found
in alleys & bedrooms/at the top of the stairs
before i ride the subway/buy a paper/drink
coffee/i must know/
have you hurt a woman today
did you beat a woman today
throw a child across a room
are the lil girl's panties
in yr pocket
did you hurt a woman today
i have to ask these obscene questions
the authorities require me to
establish
immediate cause
every three minutes
every five minutes
every ten minutes
every day.
every five minutes a
woman is raped/every ten minutes
a lil girl is molested
yet i rode the subway today
i sat next to an old man who
may have beaten his old wife
3 minutes ago or 3 days/30 years ago
he might have sodomized his
daughter but i sat there
cuz the young men on the train
might beat some young women
later in the day or tomorrow
i might not shut my door fast
every 3 minutes it happens
some woman's innocence
rushes to her cheeks/pours from her mouth
like the betsy wetsy dolls have been torn
apart/their mouths
menses red & split/every
three minutes a shoulder
is jammed through plaster and the oven door/
chairs push thru the rib cage/hot water or
boiling sperm decorate her body
i rode the subway today
& bought a paper from a
man who might
have held his old lady onto
a hot pressing iron/i don't know
maybe he catches lil girls in the
park & rips open their behinds
with steel rods/i can't decide
what he might have done i only
know every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes every 10 minutes/so
i bought the paper
looking for the announcement
the discovery/of the dismembered
woman's body/the
victims have not all been
identified/today they are
naked and dead/refuse to
testify/one girl out of 10's not
coherent/i took the coffee
& spit it up/i found an
announcement/not the woman's
bloated body in the river/floating
not the child bleeding in the
59th street corridor/not the baby
broken on the floor/
there is some concern
that alleged battered women
might start to murder their
husbands & lovers with no
immediate cause'
i spit up i vomit i am screaming
we all have immediate cause
every 3 minutes
every 5 minutes
every 10 minutes
every day
women's bodies are found
in alleys & bedrooms/at the top of the stairs
before i ride the subway/buy a paper/drink
coffee/i must know/
have you hurt a woman today
did you beat a woman today
throw a child across a room
are the lil girl's panties
in yr pocket
did you hurt a woman today
i have to ask these obscene questions
the authorities require me to
establish
immediate cause
every three minutes
every five minutes
every ten minutes
every day.
Snowdrops
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring–
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring–
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
Erotic Poem xvii.
xvii.
Lady,i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene
(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,
lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite ease
the poem which i do not write.
Lady,i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene
(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,
lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite ease
the poem which i do not write.
Wednesday, February 15, 2017
Cotton Candy On A Rainy Day
Don’t look now
I’m fading away
Into the gray of my mornings
Or the blues of every night
Is it that my nails
keep breaking
Or maybe the corn
on my second little piggy
Things keep popping out
on my face
or
of my life
It seems no matter how
I try I become more difficult
to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want
They have asked
the psychiatrists psychologists politicians and
social workers
What this decade will be
known for
There is no doubt it is
loneliness
If loneliness were a grape
the wine would be vintage
If it were a wood
the furniture would be mahogany
But since it is life it is
Cotton Candy
on a rainy day
The sweet soft essence
of possibility
Never quite maturing
I have prided myself
On being in that great tradition
albeit circus
That the show must go on
Though in my community the vernacular is
One Monkey Don’t Stop the Show
We all line up
at some midway point
To thread our way through
the boredom and futility
Looking for the blue ribbon and gold medal
Mostly these are seen as food labels
We are consumed by people who sing
the same old song STAY:
as sweet as you are
in my corner
Or perhaps just a little bit longer
But whatever you do don’t change baby baby don’t change
Something needs to change
Everything some say will change
I need a change
of pace face attitude and life
Though I long for my loneliness
I know I need something
Or someone.
Or…..
I strangle my words as easily as I do my tears
I stifle my screams as frequently as I flash my smile
it means nothing
I am cotton candy on a rainy day
the unrealized dream of an idea unborn
I share with the painters the desire
To put a three-dimensional picture
On a one-dimensional surface
I’m fading away
Into the gray of my mornings
Or the blues of every night
Is it that my nails
keep breaking
Or maybe the corn
on my second little piggy
Things keep popping out
on my face
or
of my life
It seems no matter how
I try I become more difficult
to hold
I am not an easy woman
to want
They have asked
the psychiatrists psychologists politicians and
social workers
What this decade will be
known for
There is no doubt it is
loneliness
If loneliness were a grape
the wine would be vintage
If it were a wood
the furniture would be mahogany
But since it is life it is
Cotton Candy
on a rainy day
The sweet soft essence
of possibility
Never quite maturing
I have prided myself
On being in that great tradition
albeit circus
That the show must go on
Though in my community the vernacular is
One Monkey Don’t Stop the Show
We all line up
at some midway point
To thread our way through
the boredom and futility
Looking for the blue ribbon and gold medal
Mostly these are seen as food labels
We are consumed by people who sing
the same old song STAY:
as sweet as you are
in my corner
Or perhaps just a little bit longer
But whatever you do don’t change baby baby don’t change
Something needs to change
Everything some say will change
I need a change
of pace face attitude and life
Though I long for my loneliness
I know I need something
Or someone.
Or…..
I strangle my words as easily as I do my tears
I stifle my screams as frequently as I flash my smile
it means nothing
I am cotton candy on a rainy day
the unrealized dream of an idea unborn
I share with the painters the desire
To put a three-dimensional picture
On a one-dimensional surface
Happy Valentine's Day
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!
I hope you will find this here mail
Because if this world was just
And the highest is what is sought after the most
Your mailbox on this day should be flooded
With letters of adoration
With images inspired only by the divine
And with messages fueled by a spiritual revelation that could have only come about by a deeply transformative opening of the heart
And if this is not so?
I mourn the state of this world
And I grieve the fact that our evolution has only come thus far
But I must admit
There is joy as well
Joy over the fact that the world has not caught up with you just yet
And knowing that I can acknowledge you here, in this moment ...
Hi!
Greetings,
Even if my letter is the only one, or one among the few?
Know that I speak on behalf of the plenty
Because plenty of talk takes place about you up in the heavens,
and the divine beings that dwell there participate in these talks with the upmost regard
"She's tried and true" they say.
Which in their terms means
one who is not only gifted, but can also hold those gifts with ease and grace
Even when times are trying
For example
Imagine one is gifted with the greatest of beauty
which in your case is not a stretch of the imagination at all
Now I'd like you to imagine also, that ones abundance of beauty can be overwhelming
for it can easily set a precedent in how one maneuvers through the world
See, the world honors beauty in a particular way, but the heavens do it in their own way.
And it is the later what you have accomplished
Which is just hearsay.
But isn't everything hearsay.
Even my own words are but my hearsay from my intuition or gut,
And these words that you read here right now in this moment of reading
Could easily turn into mere hearsay as well,
And I would like you to keep that in mind
When I say the following,
So try not to filter these words with precedents that were set in the past
If when we speak of the perfection of your beauty
try not to think about that what you find imperfect about your self,
This here is not science!
Or, in fact it is science
but in the ancient kind of way
where all the sciences are studied at the same time.
Unfortunately modern science looks at the details,
it isolates things
And just like when we get isolated, and lonely
we don't shine, and we don't thrive.
The only thing we need to look at when we see anything in detail
is its interaction with its environment.
So when one was to speak of your eyes?
One could talk about the individual coloring they posses,
or one could mention the transcendence they clearly harbor,
Because in my view the eyes are like saloon doors
they open both ways,
You see the world through them
and the world sees you through it.
What then is there to see in these eyes?
There is lots to see.
But one thing it is not.
It is not the heart, its definitely not that!
Everyones heart is supposed to be the same,
No, what we are looking at is the interaction of the heart.
When we walk through the world and things come our way
Our hearts interact with all that we see
And yours doesn't just interact, it touches
It touches everything that comes your way
So if you feel overwhelmed sometimes? I understand
That is a lot of work.
It would make sense, that
On this day it would be nice to receive some recognition for that
Because if this world was just
And the highest is what is sought after the most
Your mailbox on this day should be flooded
With letters of adoration
With images inspired only by the divine
And with messages fueled by a spiritual revelation that could have only come about by a deeply transformative opening of the heart
And if this is not so?
I am here to make up for the shortcomings of this world.
If in that, I was to put you on a pedestal?
It might be that I think the world you walk on is not worthy to even touch your feet
It might be that I'd want to show you of to the world, for the great being that you are
And it might be that I'd simply want to make it easier for my tall self to whisper a couple of things into your ear
So listen,
There is women, and there is women.
And you? Oh, special one, also known as Sophia
Wisdom,
the feminine side of Gods presence
Hear me out?
You are an embodiment of all that.
What I was told is this.
Your heart ...
Those four chambers in your chest that open and close,
open and close.
And open ...
That heart of the feminine, is like an opulent flower
but in order for it to grow it requires a great bounty of light
and a purity of light that unfortunately for us is so rare
It hasn't been seen for the last 1000s of years
Not since atlantis anyways
Not in this galaxy
Not on this planet
Not under these circumstances
Not even in moments of the most heightened pure bliss.
I'm sorry its just not possible
These here are facts.
I was shown the numbers, and how they add up,
or should I say don't add up.
But rumor has it.
Your four room boudoir, the core of whom you are
have their widows wide open
a fresh breeze runs through them
Causing the veils to blow in the wind
with a breath of fresh air that flows through it.
And a spaciousness ...
unlike any other.
How you did this? I know not.
But I was told to tell you.
One way to bring back that light for every woman
Is to have women powerful enough
To have their hearts be of a size so large
it entices that light to come out from a planet just like venus
2 galaxies removed
and four times as big.
Word is,
That light is on its way.
Because of you!
I hope you will find this here mail
Because if this world was just
And the highest is what is sought after the most
Your mailbox on this day should be flooded
With letters of adoration
With images inspired only by the divine
And with messages fueled by a spiritual revelation that could have only come about by a deeply transformative opening of the heart
And if this is not so?
I mourn the state of this world
And I grieve the fact that our evolution has only come thus far
But I must admit
There is joy as well
Joy over the fact that the world has not caught up with you just yet
And knowing that I can acknowledge you here, in this moment ...
Hi!
Greetings,
Even if my letter is the only one, or one among the few?
Know that I speak on behalf of the plenty
Because plenty of talk takes place about you up in the heavens,
and the divine beings that dwell there participate in these talks with the upmost regard
"She's tried and true" they say.
Which in their terms means
one who is not only gifted, but can also hold those gifts with ease and grace
Even when times are trying
For example
Imagine one is gifted with the greatest of beauty
which in your case is not a stretch of the imagination at all
Now I'd like you to imagine also, that ones abundance of beauty can be overwhelming
for it can easily set a precedent in how one maneuvers through the world
See, the world honors beauty in a particular way, but the heavens do it in their own way.
And it is the later what you have accomplished
Which is just hearsay.
But isn't everything hearsay.
Even my own words are but my hearsay from my intuition or gut,
And these words that you read here right now in this moment of reading
Could easily turn into mere hearsay as well,
And I would like you to keep that in mind
When I say the following,
So try not to filter these words with precedents that were set in the past
If when we speak of the perfection of your beauty
try not to think about that what you find imperfect about your self,
This here is not science!
Or, in fact it is science
but in the ancient kind of way
where all the sciences are studied at the same time.
Unfortunately modern science looks at the details,
it isolates things
And just like when we get isolated, and lonely
we don't shine, and we don't thrive.
The only thing we need to look at when we see anything in detail
is its interaction with its environment.
So when one was to speak of your eyes?
One could talk about the individual coloring they posses,
or one could mention the transcendence they clearly harbor,
Because in my view the eyes are like saloon doors
they open both ways,
You see the world through them
and the world sees you through it.
What then is there to see in these eyes?
There is lots to see.
But one thing it is not.
It is not the heart, its definitely not that!
Everyones heart is supposed to be the same,
No, what we are looking at is the interaction of the heart.
When we walk through the world and things come our way
Our hearts interact with all that we see
And yours doesn't just interact, it touches
It touches everything that comes your way
So if you feel overwhelmed sometimes? I understand
That is a lot of work.
It would make sense, that
On this day it would be nice to receive some recognition for that
Because if this world was just
And the highest is what is sought after the most
Your mailbox on this day should be flooded
With letters of adoration
With images inspired only by the divine
And with messages fueled by a spiritual revelation that could have only come about by a deeply transformative opening of the heart
And if this is not so?
I am here to make up for the shortcomings of this world.
If in that, I was to put you on a pedestal?
It might be that I think the world you walk on is not worthy to even touch your feet
It might be that I'd want to show you of to the world, for the great being that you are
And it might be that I'd simply want to make it easier for my tall self to whisper a couple of things into your ear
So listen,
There is women, and there is women.
And you? Oh, special one, also known as Sophia
Wisdom,
the feminine side of Gods presence
Hear me out?
You are an embodiment of all that.
What I was told is this.
Your heart ...
Those four chambers in your chest that open and close,
open and close.
And open ...
That heart of the feminine, is like an opulent flower
but in order for it to grow it requires a great bounty of light
and a purity of light that unfortunately for us is so rare
It hasn't been seen for the last 1000s of years
Not since atlantis anyways
Not in this galaxy
Not on this planet
Not under these circumstances
Not even in moments of the most heightened pure bliss.
I'm sorry its just not possible
These here are facts.
I was shown the numbers, and how they add up,
or should I say don't add up.
But rumor has it.
Your four room boudoir, the core of whom you are
have their widows wide open
a fresh breeze runs through them
Causing the veils to blow in the wind
with a breath of fresh air that flows through it.
And a spaciousness ...
unlike any other.
How you did this? I know not.
But I was told to tell you.
One way to bring back that light for every woman
Is to have women powerful enough
To have their hearts be of a size so large
it entices that light to come out from a planet just like venus
2 galaxies removed
and four times as big.
Word is,
That light is on its way.
Because of you!
Monday, February 6, 2017
Dear Ex-Lover
Dear ex lover,
I promise I'll stop chasing your memory in my dreams.
I'll stop bringing your name up over cups of coffee. muffins, and loneliness.
I will marry a man, and I will lay my heart on his chest,
like red roses on mahogany caskets.
And I'll have his daughter.
And she'll have eyes reminding me that God still believes in second chances.
And if she ever decided to date a woman,
I will love bravery down her spine.
I will be reminded of all the times where we loved like there were expiration dates tattooed on our inner thighs.
If she ever comes home with eyelids like cracking levies, bruised kneecaps, and a heart full of question marks,
I will hold her like my mother never held me.
I will clasp her face in my palms like the New Testament on judgement day.
I'll tell her that love is the passion that allows you to do the right thing.
And no woman can play coaster to half-empty heart.
And if she ever feels as if she's alone,
As if she is not a hand-me-down fabric pulled out of the depths of mommy's closet,
I'll remember your name and I'll mumble it under my breath.
And when she asks me what did I say,
I'll tell her that I know what it's like to drag a woman out of a cold war,
And then being too worn to clean up the battle field that it has made of you.
I'll tell her that your heart sounds like gun shows tripping over battered cement.
I'll tell her I know what it's like just to want somebody to remember you.
And that some women are as foul as expired men in produce aisles.
And that apologies are like oxygen masks on hijack planes.
Forgive yourself before you ever forgive the person that's sitting next to you.
I'll tell her to never regret loving in permanent ink.
And that scars only give your stretch marks something to gossip about.
And that hearts and stop signs are fraternal twins,
Lost in open roads and hollow chests.
If my daughter's mirror is ever unfamiliar and she is too embarrassed and prideful to run into mommy's arms,
I'll pray that she has friends with hearts filled with thousands of fireflies.
Who are not too cool to pray with her.
Who will tell her to stop looking for the light at the end of the tunnel and find God in the darkness.
If my daughter ever walks in my house like shattering class,
I'll tell her about you.
I'll tell her that we hurt like C-Sections birthing dead babies.
And that we cried together.
And that we prayed together.
And that we laughed like our smiles were the only ones that mattered in this world.
And that we hurt,
Like women who loved women,
Who loved people that did not love us.
Dear Ex Lover,
I hope my daughter never knows what a goodbye kiss feels like.
I hope she never knows what "I'll see you later" really means.
I hope she never memorizes the dial tone of a last conversation.
Because a broken heart feels like poisoned butterflies taking their last flutters in the pit of your stomach.
Dear Ex Lover,
I hope my daughter never bears her soul at a poetry showcase,
With her first love sitting in the audience-
Knowing the same hands she'll use to applaud her with,
Will be the same hands that will never hold her again.
https://youtu.be/tpVLLq7KQyE
The Gift
Snow began falling late last night. Wet flakes
dropping past windows, snow covering
the skylights. We watched for a time, surprised
and happy. glad to be here, and nowhere else.
I loaded up the wood stove. Adjusted the flue.
We went to bed, where I closed my eyes at once.
But for some reason, before falling asleep,
I recalled the scene at the airport
in Buenos Aires the evening we left.
How still and deserted the place seemed!
Dead quiet except the sound of our engines
as we backed away from the gate and
taxied slowly down the runway in a light snow.
The windows in the terminal building dark.
No one in evidence, not even a ground crew. “It’s as if
the whole place is mourning,” you said.
dropping past windows, snow covering
the skylights. We watched for a time, surprised
and happy. glad to be here, and nowhere else.
I loaded up the wood stove. Adjusted the flue.
We went to bed, where I closed my eyes at once.
But for some reason, before falling asleep,
I recalled the scene at the airport
in Buenos Aires the evening we left.
How still and deserted the place seemed!
Dead quiet except the sound of our engines
as we backed away from the gate and
taxied slowly down the runway in a light snow.
The windows in the terminal building dark.
No one in evidence, not even a ground crew. “It’s as if
the whole place is mourning,” you said.
I opened my eyes. Your breathing said
you were fast asleep. I covered you with an arm
and went on from Argentina to recall a place
I lives in once in Palo Alto. No snow in Palo Alto.
But I had a room and two windows looking onto the Bayshore Freeway.
They refrigerator stood next to the bed.
When I became dehydrated in the middle of the night,
all I had to do to slake that thirst was reach out
and open the door. The light inside showed the way
to a bottle of cold water. A hot plate
sat in the bathroom close to the sink.
When I shaved, the pan of water bubbled
on the coil next to the jar of coffee granules.
you were fast asleep. I covered you with an arm
and went on from Argentina to recall a place
I lives in once in Palo Alto. No snow in Palo Alto.
But I had a room and two windows looking onto the Bayshore Freeway.
They refrigerator stood next to the bed.
When I became dehydrated in the middle of the night,
all I had to do to slake that thirst was reach out
and open the door. The light inside showed the way
to a bottle of cold water. A hot plate
sat in the bathroom close to the sink.
When I shaved, the pan of water bubbled
on the coil next to the jar of coffee granules.
I sat on the bed one morning, dressed, clean-shaven,
drinking coffee, putting off what I’d decided to do. Finally
dialed Jim Houston’s number in Santa Cruz.
And asked for 75 dollars. He said he didn’t have it.
His wife had gone to Mexico for a week.
He simply didn’t have it. He was coming up short
this month. “It’s okay,” I said, “I understand.”
And I did. We talked a little
more, then hung up. He didn’t hate it.
I finished the coffee, more or less, just as the plane
lifted off the runway into the sunset.
I turned in the seat for one last look
at the lights of Buenos Aires. Then closed my eyes
for the long trip back.
drinking coffee, putting off what I’d decided to do. Finally
dialed Jim Houston’s number in Santa Cruz.
And asked for 75 dollars. He said he didn’t have it.
His wife had gone to Mexico for a week.
He simply didn’t have it. He was coming up short
this month. “It’s okay,” I said, “I understand.”
And I did. We talked a little
more, then hung up. He didn’t hate it.
I finished the coffee, more or less, just as the plane
lifted off the runway into the sunset.
I turned in the seat for one last look
at the lights of Buenos Aires. Then closed my eyes
for the long trip back.
This morning there’s snow everywhere. We remark on it.
You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say
I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.”
We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other
as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind.
As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don’t,
of course. We never do. No matter.
It’s the tenderness I care about. That’s the gift
this morning that moves and holds me.
Same as every morning.
You tell me you didn’t sleep well. I say
I didn’t either. You had a terrible night. “Me too.”
We’re extraordinarily calm and tender with each other
as if sensing the other’s rickety state of mind.
As if we knew what the other was feeling. We don’t,
of course. We never do. No matter.
It’s the tenderness I care about. That’s the gift
this morning that moves and holds me.
Same as every morning.
Demeter's Prayer To Hades
This alone is what I wish for you: knowledge.
To understand each desire has an edge,
to know we are responsible for the lives
we change. No faith comes without cost,
no one believes without dying.
Now for the first time
I see clearly the trail you planted,
what ground opened to waste,
though you dreamed a wealth
of flowers.
There are no curses–only mirrors
held up to the souls of gods and mortals.
And so I give up this fate, too.
Believe in yourself,
go ahead–see where it gets you.
To understand each desire has an edge,
to know we are responsible for the lives
we change. No faith comes without cost,
no one believes without dying.
Now for the first time
I see clearly the trail you planted,
what ground opened to waste,
though you dreamed a wealth
of flowers.
There are no curses–only mirrors
held up to the souls of gods and mortals.
And so I give up this fate, too.
Believe in yourself,
go ahead–see where it gets you.
Sunday, February 5, 2017
Queer Poetics: How to Make Love to A Trans Person
Forget the images you’ve learned to attach
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.
To words like cock and clit,
Chest and breasts.
Break those words open
Like a paramedic cracking ribs
To pump blood through a failing heart.
Push your hands inside.
Get them messy.
Scratch new definitions on the bones.
Get rid of the old words altogether.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.
Make up new words.
Call it a click or a ditto.
Call it the sound he makes
When you brush your hand against it through his jeans,
When you can hear his heart knocking on the back of his teeth
And every cell in his body is breathing.
Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her.
When you peel layers of clothing from his skin
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.
Do not act as though you are changing dressings on a trauma patient
Even though it’s highly likely that you are.
Do not ask if she’s “had the surgery.”
Do not tell him that the needlepoint bruises on his thighs look like they hurt
If you are being offered a body
That has already been laid upon an altar of surgical steel
A sacrifice to whatever gods govern bodies
That come with some assembly required
Whatever you do,
Do not say that the carefully sculpted landscape
Bordered by rocky ridges of scar tissue
Looks almost natural.
If she offers you breastbone
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it
Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
Diabetes,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.
Aching to carve soft fruit from its branches
Though there may be more tissue in the lining of her bra
Than the flesh that rises to meet it
Let her ripen in your hands.
Imagine if she’d lost those swells to cancer,
Diabetes,
A car accident instead of an accident of genetics
Would you think of her as less a woman then?
Then think of her as no less one now.
If he offers you a thumb-sized sprout of muscle
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can-
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.
Reaching toward you when you kiss him
Like it wants to go deep enough inside you
To scratch his name on the bottom of your heart
Hold it as if it can-
In your hand, in your mouth
Inside the nest of your pelvic bones.
Though his skin may hardly do more than brush yours,
You will feel him deeper than you think.
Realize that bodies are only a fraction of who we are
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this.
- Gabe Moses
http://wildgender.com/queer-poetics-how-to-make-love-to-a-trans-person/2401
They’re just oddly-shaped vessels for hearts
And honestly, they can barely contain us
We strain at their seams with every breath we take
We are all pulse and sweat,
Tissue and nerve ending
We are programmed to grope and fumble until we get it right.
Bodies have been learning each other forever.
It’s what bodies do.
They are grab bags of parts
And half the fun is figuring out
All the different ways we can fit them together;
All the different uses for hipbones and hands,
Tongues and teeth;
All the ways to car-crash our bodies beautiful.
But we could never forget how to use our hearts
Even if we tried.
That’s the important part.
Don’t worry about the bodies.
They’ve got this.
- Gabe Moses
http://wildgender.com/queer-poetics-how-to-make-love-to-a-trans-person/2401
I.35
i watch him touch him self over a screen
and pretend it is with my hands
and pretend it is with my hands
how you pull a quiver from an arrow.
he moans and i grow jealous of the satellites.
their capacity for translation, to code his sound
in numbers unbraiding in my speakers
lucky metal audience of cables.
their capacity for translation, to code his sound
in numbers unbraiding in my speakers
lucky metal audience of cables.
i know the wireless signal is all around me,
that i’m drowning in his unrendered noise.
that i’m drowning in his unrendered noise.
how from a thousand miles away i can dam
myself with the light spilling from his hands.
myself with the light spilling from his hands.
what magic is this? distance collapsed
into the length of a human breath. what witchcraft?
into the length of a human breath. what witchcraft?
six years ago a bridge between us collapsed
the interstate ate thirteen people alive
asphalt spilling like amputated hands
into the dark below. what is love but a river
that exists to eat all your excess concrete
the interstate ate thirteen people alive
asphalt spilling like amputated hands
into the dark below. what is love but a river
that exists to eat all your excess concrete
appendages? what is a voice but how it lands
wet in the body? what is distance
but a place that can be reshaped through language?
wet in the body? what is distance
but a place that can be reshaped through language?
how i emulate and pull a keyboard from the ashes.
how i gave him a river and he became it’s king.
how any thing collapsed can be rebuilt.
take our two heaving torsos take them
take our two heaving torsos take them
how they fall like a bridge into the water
how they rise up alone from the sweat.
- Sam Sax
how they rise up alone from the sweat.
- Sam Sax
On PrEP or on Prayer [“when i say pre-exposure prophylaxis”]
when i say pre-exposure prophylaxis
you think
easy fix. greek in origin. an act of guarding.
east of here a small temple.
inside parishioners strip nude
as armless statues, their stone
genitals hardening under a chemist’s glare.
the garden out front fecund & tended.
the garden inside bare.
when i say tenofovir disoproxil
you think
chemical names. saint names. names without origin.
an unpronounceable string of letters. the generic names
of petty angels. the drug’s molecular makeup applied in
& around the eyes & lips. the names of viruses & blind trials.
the kept-vial of love. the unknowable side effects of blood.
when i say oral emtricitabine
you think
once a day swallow a small sun
& all hymn in you comes undone
the way a lit match deads the smell
of a public bathroom
when i say nucleotide analog reverse transcriptase inhibitor
you think
thirsty epidemic
you push the blue pill through its foil
you know each new medicine trails
our dead behind it like wedding cans
listen
you can hear them now can’t you?
- Sam Sax
On PrEP or on Prayer [“spare us your burial rites”]
spare us your burial rites
spare us the first rib
the flood, the resurrection
spare us your dairy & meats
your belief in a life after this one
heaven’s a city
we’ve been priced out of
our mothers fled
for more affordable children
for the price of liver
heaven wants nothing
to do with pleasure
on earth
on this
the occasion of my brother’s wedding
i need something awful
done to my body
heaven’s a boy
who wants me to crawl
through his mother’s midnight-window
heaven’s the condom splitting into light
heaven’s not a place
more a wound i make & pass through
when we’re done
he asks how many men
i’ve fucked this month
& not loved
spare me the quilt & blankets
spare me the look
in his eyes when he takes me
careful as a poison inside him
spare me the lecture
on the survival
of my body
& i will spare you
my body
- Sam Sax
- Sam Sax
The Hitter
he hit good
at all the right times
in all the right places
hitting so hard i’d know
he meant it
to redirect me
to shock me into love
to make me covet
those pangs of missing
and needing him hitting
at all the right times
in all the right places
to shock me into love
to make me covet
those pangs of missing
and needing him hitting
at all the right times
in all the right places
hitting to make me remember
and never forget hitting
to make me want more
and never be fulfilled or
hardened against his hardness
and never forget hitting
to make me want more
and never be fulfilled or
hardened against his hardness
of love for me hard as
muscle and muscular as love
hitting direct and meaning it
in all the right times
in all the right places.
- Brad Johnson
muscle and muscular as love
hitting direct and meaning it
in all the right times
in all the right places.
- Brad Johnson
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