tennis

back and forth
like tennis baby
or battleship.
on top of
inside of
over the clothes
behind the back...

you ticked every box
left the faucets on
lit a fucking match
and walked away.

i hope there's a bruise
and i hope
someone pokes you in it
to remind you of me.

party

she bit the inside corner of her mouth as the party raged on,
the din elicited a certain confidence by drowning out the pauses,
constant chattering and laughter.
it made her relax her mechanical posture to sub-marionette levels,
it shaved her trachea without ever touching a scalpel,
her voice pitch perfect.

she burned the dress,
she burned the house down,
with hips like ka-pow
they made a mess.

and in the morning there were no closets left to hack to pieces,
there was a pile of people delighting in their differences,
and/or similarities.
it made her punch that card one last time before leaving,
it freed up precious days and hours over a lifetime,
to not have to try.

he made her cry,
but in a good way this time,
each giving permission
without asking why.

and i awoke to hammering inside my delicate little head,
i threw on whatever clothes may have fit me (or not),
and got the fuck out of dodge.
do i lie to myself every day like we all do, or is it
that i just lie to you or let you sort out the clues?
releasing the mystery.

i put it all out there,
my novel written backwards,
because i somehow survived
which is wholly unfair.

mother's day

i spent so long
trying to be anything but her
without realizing what was good:
my ferocity
my pluck and passion
and my soft sloping shoulders all came from her.

gunshot wound

i learned to run because
crawling didn't get me there
fast enough or far enough away.

i wonder how many times i was
made to feel small to fit into
each hamper or crawlspace.

this is about using my supports
this is about losing illusion
this is about accepting
this is about wartime blues in an ocean of orange and blue.

i soldered my guts together
instead of loosing them again
and walked away without pause.

i stopped the bleeding this time
on my own and without sutures
or wads of gauze.

this is about giving up
this is about letting go
this is about swearing
this is about baring my teeth at the next fucking dog i see.

loose leaf

i drew a picture today on loose leaf
and let it go to the winds
to biodegrade like i will.

i packed up a life in two days
drove for two more
and changed my mind again.

and i know i shouldn't, but i will
beat myself black and blue over it
whether it was the correct thing
to do or not.

the picture was of my first erection,
which smiled back at me
as i looked on horrified.

so i'll pack up a life in a day
drive for two more
and leave that leaf to the winds.

sleeves

i wear my closet on my sleeve
everyday
soft chin, soft eyes hiding daggers
ready to cut you a new smile.

i can sit in this room for days
and i bet never
hear one of them admit
what gets their heart rate up.

this closet is the size
of an entire town
set sideways, spreading out
like a dropped egg.

and culture is just
sanctioned behavior;
eyes forward, ever forward
urinals and cubicles.

i cut off my sleeves today
and it was freeing
to walk around, tough as fuck
feeling my shoulders.

they don't need to know
a glamazon
a chimera in heels
to know they don't get it.

it's a dry heat

i walked until my shoes were tattered strips,

i watched the moon sink just below the treeline

and i made a beeline

through that desert though i’d

never see you, never see you,

the earth spun out of control, caught oblivious and i

curse the sun, curse the heat and the heavens

curse my heart and then my feet..

and my guts churning like sour milk,

recalled your voice like silk

that whispers

panting painting me i’m plastered,

asked me for ten minutes and i gave you an hour…

and 2000 miles under the yawning moon.

The adorable ballerina

Life at the bar:
Like a naughty/nice list.
The adorable ballerina
puts up with your shit.

Nothing is good enough.
No one is ever sated.
She fuckin smiles
no matter what.

i must have looked homeless

that flawless face,
the no-makeup makeup,
the tilt of her hips,
wings sharpened to scalpels.

i must have looked homeless
as i passed her by
with a polite smile,
hair in all directions.

stains on everything,
not even wearing socks
(or underwear) but
appearing just as effortless.

fuck denim, give me latex

this is what killed Tasha Yar,
what inspired Nietzche
to write all those sonnets.

the slick, inkiness, spreading itself thin
in between my legs, around my neck.
it stretches enough to let your lungs work,
it adheres to each contour and shows off
every imperfection perfectly.
this beats cling film any day.

i stare at it for minutes, lightly
passing my fingers over it
again and again.
i imagine myself preserved
underneath stone focusing
spiritual energy into space.

i want its unyielding authority,
i crave its surface tension,
i want to feel as though i am the sexiest Darth Vader.

i think about the horse people
who attended the convention,
expecting to be accepted
and only finding themselves.

i wanted to touch them without sarcasm,
to hold their straws still during a conversation
that would fascinate me to no end.
instead,
i watched people
circle the meatballs
because they are free.

imagine how beautiful we would be
preserved,
vacuum-packed for freshness,
smirking knowingly at every groper.

tucking that thought away,
bookmarking that page,
for when my disposable income
surpasses my common sense.

head to toe in leather

head to toe in leather,
hide tanned from corrosive salts,
waiting in line to wash it all off.
but the rain's coming baby,
roll those smokes up in your sleeve
safe and snug.
i'm living the free life,
i'm living in the matrix,
huffing e-fumes. then she resumes her speech politely
ignoring my constant interruptions:

"you're so cryptic,
and people don't want to think
to decipher the content.
they want to drink on Sunday"

i blink and it's Groundhog's day.
i blink and it's Christmas.
i blink and i'm reminded that
Autumn dies as fast as Spring.

my hide is weighing me down,
so i shed it.
my helm is chalky and brittle;
one tap and it crumbles.
my sniper's scope works mid-range at best,
and everything sounds good when it's not now.

turtles live forever at home,
those intrepid agoraphobes,
tracing their world out of a magazine.

so i took it all off, and blasted whatever is closest
to fill in and drown out the sound of airplanes
and trains
and people mumbling to themselves into a telephone.

i mention it often, but my tongue is loose
and sharpened and nowhere near my cheek:
i'd love for it to snow, to increase the albedo,
just a smidge or two until our marble reflects
what ugly ignorant assholes we are.

i watch her polite expression, knowing that
i am going the same place forever with my thoughts.
the matte surface of boredom and nostalgia presses me
to cross the street, despite my desire to
sun-bathe in the intersection.

dirty feet

my feet are filthy,
5 miles of blacktop
run entirely in circles.

my lungs protest,
but nothing can beat
a good ole chemical peel.

my heart sinks down
into the pit of my
grumbling stomach.

my mouth is a matchstick,
heartfelt and honest but
mostly incendiary.

my pronoun

i never want to have the discussion.
i don't like to think about it,
because no matter which one we use
someone is misidentified.

can we take a sledgehammer to this vestigial tail
passed onto us from dead languages?

parts

behind the couch as our parents tried to melt the roach clip,
i met you twice a week after school
and we fingerpainted.
you showed me yours, i showed you mine and we noted
all of their similarities
and unique properties.

there was a knot in the tree behind your house,
and you laughed
when i said it looked like a butt.
i spent weeks in my room after the shame
and promised i would
never touch it again.

i stole a kiss from you when we ran away from home,
lost in the row of pines
behind our school.
it was the first time i realized that i could see better,
and with more clarity
up close and honest.

...

sometimes it's better not to share or think of those times,
like when i compared it to the boys'
and i watched their faces contort.
i often wonder why we never met up again after puberty
to compare
though i wanted to.

earplugs

headphones are a pleasant partition.
half the time i didn't even have music on,
i would just struggle toward the sounds muffled, imagining i was deaf.
i learned ASL from grimy truckers.
i just wanted to explore,
to feel that part of me
that acknowledged.

we are surrounded and bombarded every day.
i started using earplugs instead,
and found that i ignore so many things in my environment:
the engine in the car,  the whirring of the fan,
the inconsequential ramblings of idiots.
i just wanted to think,
to feel like i have some space
uncharted.

we built the tank to suit,
like an iron lung,
like a womb,
like a sarcophagus.

in here you can barely hear a thing.

the implant

clawing at the implant, i loose the skin.
it's very messy, but the itching
never ceases.
those robotic skitterings on bones made of marble.
like a glass countertop
that insists on being shattered.

i'd love to tell you all about it.
wouldn't it be nice?
removing components that serve no purpose
other than to slow the CPU
and make a buck.

we're all born in the void
and the void is inky
(yet warmer than i remember)
and the universe hums and pulses.

i spent the whole weekend
talking about innies and outies,
and the curly-haired pixie laughed inappropriately and then
caught herself.
while you didn't crack a smile
because you're used to it,
my advocacy for all devils:
the lone champion against misandry.

(i think it's fun to note what the spell-check catches)


i want the jukebox to play on repeat
"would we be alive?"
and we would all swoon like it was Elvis.
i want the signs to say
"bathroom",
i want to dig out the implants,
i want to show you things that just seem really obvious if you take half a second.

think about the songs we sang, and then imagine
Ann Wilson singing them
like a fucking banshee...
do you need to borrow a knife?

i've been digging and digging and my arms and legs and hips are bloody,
rended like a failed armor save,
and i can't find it,
but the itch is still there.

it's a half-dead fever dream at this point to keep consciousness
in a world i know to hate me.
dig out that fucking implant.

wrist watch

she wants to wind me like a wrist watch,
i want to get off of the sofa
and toast to burning out the last lights:
those fateful packets of photons caught in the big freeze.

I am a beautiful person

I have given up.
I no longer want to do anything.
Pizza and Godzilla were boring and tasteless, coffee puts me to sleep.
I look at piles of papers and I just
No longer care.

It's not like last time. I was dangerous.
Possessed by the Banshee.
Ready to Die Hard with a Vengeance.
Nope. This time is different.
I just have no desire.

cosplay

today I'm cosplaying Arthur Dent,
but if the Earth ends
I will be prepared.
Wearing my bathrobe, towel wrapped around my hair.
I could really go for two pints and some peanuts right now.
I could really go for some Intergalactic Highway.
I could really go for some atrocious poetry.
I could really go places if I could manage could get off the ground
and just let the goddamn bulldozer do its job.

my inner diva yelled "bitch"

trigger warning, you pulled mine
and now i get to leap out of my armchair and claw your eyes out
my nails are real... really dull,
with dirt and grime that i can never dig out efficiently with my teeth,
and we know that hurts way more.

but no, i won't.
you will just win this round,
like they always do,
my inner diva yelled "bitch" before quietly returning to her pillow of ideals.

they should make a kit for this:

i disrobe, and i never mind the hair
(everywhere).
revving motors get me going,
so i begin the process.

few things are as easy as being your own cosmetologist,
and i look damn good,
like Mackenzie, but way more butch.

i'm going for professional couture
(eleganza administerum):
pointing my eyelashes,
binding my tits,
uncurling my lips...

the only thing that stays the same is my bared sneer.

in the hot mist of abnormal morning
(soothed),
i relish my curves and examine the moss which clings to my chest.
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick my hair back, i look eleven,
and if you slick her hair back, she looks like she does this all the time:

at the grocery store,
at the post office,
while spitting a drink into your stupid face,
on the clock.

i take in the last humid blast
(shut off the faucet),
and wipe the mirror clean without looking into it,
except
only for a second,
to check my part,
align my tie,
and head out into the desert looking like i didn't even try.

pistol whip.

basically i'm a zen guru:

who is freaking the fuck out and is crabby and itchy and awful

at all times.

i love the concept of a pistol whip,

Nanchuan's shoes on his head.

who ISN'T freaking the fuck out?

crabby, itchy and awful

at all times.

piles.

there is so much debris around me.

when i move, i push it aside and make a path,
wearing down the carpet of leaves,
piles of useless things
that somehow define me.

every time i walk past
and do nothing with it
little pieces of me flake
off and disappear into
piles.

fiddle

fiddle,
it's fun to come up with new ways
to decide.

decisions are easy when you know
there is no binary
"it all spends the same".

untitled

I buried you
with friends
who could always
see right through
all of the shit that you wouldn't
ever admit to you,

And now I'm old
(I get older by the day):
the fresh earth whispers to me,
"Don't be alone,
don't be alone."

When you spoke I
swore that I grabbed
ahold,
but meaning goes where it will
and ruins the joke.