Archive for February, 2014

I am glad
for the spiny-tooth
miracle that was
our togetherness.

It is hard adoration
that washes over me
when winter months
make our shared
coffin our
fondest memory.

I gave all my blood
to be with you.

I am learning the
alchemy of bones,
I would have offered
them then if I’d
known even a single

I am thankful for
this lifetime
and its lessons.

I am thankful for
hard things and
harder still to

It is such a gift
to be here in
this body so
aligned. So
abject, not
uniform but
open to us,

I am thankful
for the split
sun and our
sad eyes.
These relics
were hard
earned, our
artifacts of
collapse, still
treasures. I
still care
for them.

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I wish I could
give you back
every Sunday
morning I woke
you up to get
me a glass
of milk.

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makes a bed
in my hard,
ugly heart.

invites itself
in and makes dinner
beside my dead father
and irrational anger.

shames me for
my cruelty as
a lover. Picks
apart the scabs
of old wounds and
our ugly haircuts.

in my breath,
and on my hands,
and in the dust of me.
The only human ritual
I know while I live
and die in exile
for all of my

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People in cars
always remind
me how easy it
is to drive.

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I feel much
smaller than
the way others
see me. Those
with good eyes
and strong bodies
to make possibility
so simple.

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“Everything I know about being a good queer I learned from poets”

This gave me a lot of pause for reflection. Not just because of how it intersects with my own desires, or intellectual privilege in relation to the complexity of sexuality and desire, but most of all, I have a soft spot for people who perform the poem that isn’t even a poem but more-so something churning around inside of them. We need more of those poems that aren’t even poems.

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Terrible things
have a way
of disturbing

And yes, you
wish they were
better. But also,
I imagine, they
let us escape from
all the duties
we consider beneath

When they die
or you lose
something, it
is nice and kind
to make all of the
other inconveniences
in your life a sort
of collateral damage.

If you break the teapot,
don’t forget to break
all of the china in the
kitchen. It’s much easier
to feel bad about your
broken dishes than buy
a new teapot.

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Surely my old age
will be visited by
a cluster of harpies,
each seeking recompense
and a rib for the time
I stole from them.

Someday I will grow old
and take the train. I will
catch the reflection of her
peacoat, scarf, nails in the
rear compartment.

I will be old and writing. If I
look up from the notebook, I pray
you might remember that when we were
young I loved the things some found
distasteful, and remain a collector of
ugly human curiosities. Our time in
purgatory was one of them.

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I will not soon
forget the teeth marks
of the lion that once
lived and never forgave me.

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Beware such well-shaped mouths
they are bruised tooth spiny
so swollen thigh open

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