XVI
SHAPE-UP
all the vanilla-sex straight white couples in old city
can see the loose thread of my body.
they don’t tug on it and unravel me, but they want me
to know that they could tug on it and unravel me,
and sometimes i want them to do it.
i want them to remember that i am their favorite food
and soothe the warp and weft of the backs of my knees
with every one of their palms at once.
if just one violent man fell into the vortex
of me, the rest of them would have to.
it would take years, but their bloodlust
(a full-size mirror ball at the top of a slide)
would collect interest and they’d really
love me.
you ever go to the barber shop?
more clearly:
you ever plan your haircuts around the vacations of a barber named eric who always smells like blunts
and can hold your whole head in one of his hands?
i go there and i pay him $25 to let me role-play
a whole future
from a moment of benign intimacy.
i told you i felt like a petal.
i left with my nerves singed.
my newest invasive obsession:
i want to give a good man a crazy straw
tracheotomy and suck all the mean out
and eat it, but i also want to ride every
bad man’s fingers while they tighten
zip-ties around my face and my throat.
all the vanilla-sex straight white couples in old city
can see the loose thread of my body.
they don’t tug on it and unravel me, but they want me
to know that they could tug on it and unravel me,
and sometimes i want them to do it.
i want them to remember that i am their favorite food
and soothe the warp and weft of the backs of my knees
with every one of their palms at once.
if just one violent man fell into the vortex
of me, the rest of them would have to.
it would take years, but their bloodlust
(a full-size mirror ball at the top of a slide)
would collect interest and they’d really
love me.
you ever go to the barber shop?
more clearly:
you ever plan your haircuts around the vacations of a barber named eric who always smells like blunts
and can hold your whole head in one of his hands?
i go there and i pay him $25 to let me role-play
a whole future
from a moment of benign intimacy.
i told you i felt like a petal.
i left with my nerves singed.
my newest invasive obsession:
i want to give a good man a crazy straw
tracheotomy and suck all the mean out
and eat it, but i also want to ride every
bad man’s fingers while they tighten
zip-ties around my face and my throat.
WHELP
after Aziza Barnes
my head is full of foamed blood
pressing open the seams in my skull,
burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge.
my head is the generating station in the delaware river,
developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes.
my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in
the corners of the ceilings
and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains
and that is disappointing in an expected way.
and i’m laying in my underwear in every single bed,
rolling and sighing in the sheets
and taking notes
how do i feel here
what did i do here
how was the bounce
maybe a man is there smelling sweaty
or like flat champagne sticky about the nape
and i like to feel wanted
or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted.
or at the very least, i’m shoveling black sand into some deficit,
punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am.
i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do,
i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs
and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me
and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness
and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don’t even feel it anymore.
after Aziza Barnes
my head is full of foamed blood
pressing open the seams in my skull,
burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge.
my head is the generating station in the delaware river,
developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes.
my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in
the corners of the ceilings
and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains
and that is disappointing in an expected way.
and i’m laying in my underwear in every single bed,
rolling and sighing in the sheets
and taking notes
how do i feel here
what did i do here
how was the bounce
maybe a man is there smelling sweaty
or like flat champagne sticky about the nape
and i like to feel wanted
or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted.
or at the very least, i’m shoveling black sand into some deficit,
punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am.
i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do,
i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs
and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me
and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness
and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don’t even feel it anymore.
