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Friday, December 9, 2016

20:13

Tristan, 



You are endless, love

you are the moons of Jupiter, 

each eclipsing each other, each 
raising its own tide in me

our song (?)




Like the flocking of birds, 
like the appearance of gravity, 
love is emergent… 
It arises out of circumstances, 
it has no leader but nearness, 
no direction but ours; 
no plan or shape, but need. 
And like the interplay between the birds, 
like the movement of the spheres, 
love can shut the sky_ 





We talked about my taking your pictures, and immediately I thought, one day someone may be looking back at them and find out there had been a particular place in time where "they met again, for the first time" and who knows maybe this someone comes and insists that we both recall every detail_ 






Wednesday, December 7, 2016

20:13:1988


He’s one of those men 
who wants to save me, you know? 
Oh, not religiously, 
not like some damsel in distress…
No, he wants to save me 
like he saves cigars 
for after dinner.
He wants to save me
so he can light me up
and burn me down
when it pleases him most_



2:34 
I fall asleep to the scent of his neck_
how hard this is you cannot understand
unless you've needed a little darkness
to get you going and came to find him
in the only place where your blood is made







Wednesday, November 30, 2016

the good cat

Well, talk to me like the rain and–let me listen, let me lie here and–listen…It’s been too long a time since we–levelled with each other. Now tell me things. What have you been thinking in the silence? Tell me, talk to me! Talk to me like the rain and I will lie here and listen.


_______________


Now comes the night, 
dragging your lips to mine 
like a good cat.


________________



Your arms were so far around me
your face so close to mine… 
your breath, your lips, everything 
you said… was heat in a box. 

I wondered what would be left 
when you were done with me
and now I know. Now I know… 
it is my fate, my destiny to burn.

You will never be done with me




Tuesday, November 29, 2016

father and son






Dad, 
It’s a little bit thrilling 
anytime I write your name… 
It’s all caught up in laughter 
and  pieces of a puzzle I haven't yet 

put together and … what… 
recklessness? It’s as if 
something lives beneath it, 
or inside of it… or nests 
in the bowl of your name…


I don’t know… I don’t know, but 
something moves when I write it…
when I start a letter to you… 
something turns when I say it…
something with bones and breath
and a terrible hunger to fly. 
Something that understands fire 
can’t always be controlled.



_____________



Son, I will not quote God to tell you who you are, where you should be, and what you should wear. This power is not mine, I will not pretend to exercise it to control or liberate you. 

I will not tell you to go back to the tool shed, the living room, the gym, or the front yard to play sports. You are free to find yourself in whatever room fits.

I will not staple the title “of the house” to your creation when I want you to be responsible. I will only teach you that responsibility is heavy, but any human can, will, and should carry it. I will teach you to carry it well.

I will not call you anything but your name when you fall. I will not ask you to stop crying or whining “like a girl” when you tell me it hurts. I will only ask you to remember what pain feels like. Remember what it takes to trip, to fall, and to hurt, and what it feels like to find a helping hand extended to you. I will  teach you to sympathize with those who fall and to understand that hurting is human, you do not have to be angry at the ground for knocking you down, you do not have to push anyone down to stand up again.

I will not ask you to mow the lawn if you like to wash the dishes. You will learn that you can, and will, clean up after yourself. Your genetic make-up is not a free pass on life.

I will not apologize for the privileges that you will find at your doorstep when your voice begins to change, and your hair begins to plant itself on your face. But I will expect you to know a privilege from a right, and understand that your privilege must not stand taller than anyone else’s rights.

I will not ask you to aspire to marriage because I will not wait for institution “to discipline you”. Boys will not be “just boys” when they are reckless and inconsiderate.

I will not let you break the earth, and freeze the walls of your ribcage.

I will not remind you of how I created you, fed you, clothed you. They are not a debt you owe me, I did not choose to have the ability to bring you into life. But it is an ability I welcomed.

I will not forget to tell you about the woman who chose to help me see your face, the one who carried me when I could not move forward alone. Who will teach you what I cannot? 

I will not tell you that you and your sisters are the same because you will not believe me. 

Instead, I will give you paper and ask you to write. When you tell me you cannot write without a pen, I will give you one and take away the paper. We will do this until you learn to tell me that you cannot write without a pen and paper. That they are different but equally important. 

I will teach you how to carry opportunity with one hand and open doors with the other. And if ever you fall and break your leg, I will remind you to take note of your fragility. 

I will tell you to keep walking even when you feel it is physically impossible, and when you are well I will remind you of what it felt like to move forward on one foot. I will remind you that it may not be impossible, just unnecessarily difficult. I will remind you how you wished you had seen that hole that trips you before it broke your speed of progress in half. 

I will teach you that it does not matter which leg bends first, or which takes the first step forward. It only matters that both can carry you towards your goals. It only matters that you are headed in the right direction. It only matters that you love yourself whole, that you understand how you are the world in and of yourself, and to respect yourself is to project respect.

Finally, I will not love you less for falling, for wearing dressy shoes instead of sneakers, or for knowing more about the kitchen than UEFA; and I should only hope that you can take my unconditional love and respect for your character and pass it on to your friend, your coworker, your wife, your daughter, and, of course, your son.




Monday, November 28, 2016

the fermentation process




Il est facile, pour quiconque a reçu le pardon, de pardonner n'importe qui... "Cependant certains n'arrivent pas à se pardonner d'avoir reçu le pardon"

(thank you Tristan)





the fermentation process 


they say you are what you eat 
and you may as well have realized 
that some foods
transfer scents on your skin
when your pores dilate
when you sweat, or cum, or cry 
or as you lie in the sheets 
in the darkness of your room 
as you look at the ceiling 
or as your lover gently probes you in their sleep
and do you know that when you've eaten 
your own heart, when you have 
explored the culinary possibilities
of the endocardium, the atriums
and ventricles, the avant-garde 
dish, the gelled little spheres 
that actually burst in your mouth  
transforming your superior vena cava
into a thoroughly surprising sensory
and emotional experience 
when the kind, anaerobic bacteria 
break down its non-starch polysaccharides 
do you know the scent this leaves
on your skin? 





Saturday, November 26, 2016





it's was just a lip , just a fill of the glass, just a flip of the tongue _ a word, like any other_ now, can you un-hear it? can you ?

________

________
I know ...  I miss you too 
but baby when you run out of space
when words spill off your skin, 
when the lack of me
bends your fingers down in the night
step outside and drag the sky down 
hard to her knees in front of you
and stare into the dark… 
push yourself into the throat of stars 
like you are looking in my eyes



Thursday, November 24, 2016

reverse learning





a quiet world 
that drives her roots through your bones, 
that raises your face to the sky, 
that when she comes, 
she stills your heart with light 
and buries you, mind and body, 
with a stillness born of sky _ 




I cannot believe her when she says
I am beautiful. She cannot want me,
not the way I want her. My want
is an Empire State Building
I monster-climb with her
clutched in my fist. 

They make old,
flickering horror movies
about the way I look at her mouth






\








Stay is a sensitive word. We wear who stayed and who left in our skin forever.
Nayyirah Waheed




(pour T.M.) 


I want to be open for you  
Like the doors of a church carved into something forgiving - 

Honey, please listen when I tell you this.
You are the softest part of the morning.

the disappearance


It is almost winter. 
Already I have unlearned 
everything about you. 
Your face, your eyes, 
the curve of your warm mouth. 
Already, the details in your laughter 
and the soft sweet tremble of your
lover voice, fallen away. 
It has all grown strange. Unfamiliar. 
Each thing, I no longer remember.
All of you, 
All of you, 
Suddenly, I know nothing more.


t.bennett, the light of fireflies | the disappearance 




Monday, November 21, 2016



We go for a walk. 
It’s cold and we’re alone and 
it’s a hungry moon.




my sultry seductress, baby, kid, my love, friend, partner, golden goose, little bitch, sour and salty, my acrobat, my silver darling, my little thorn, fucking angel, my sequined trapeze beauty, my bunny, my lamb, my digital emoji, mirror mask, my player, my Duende, imp, my irony, my punctuation, ripsnorter, my juvenilia, my sycophant, my petit mort, my catch, my hunter, second skin, my way around, my baptismal bath, my stitch, moist teacher, my ginger, my tough and forgiving particular joint, my paresse, my dodge, my bullet in the groin, my dancing boot ... tell me life, where are you taking me? 





Tuesday, November 15, 2016

"σαν φλιπεράκι γελαστό, ξετρελαμένο, σου δίνω ακόμη μία μπίλια για να παίξεις"
like a pinball machine, always laughing, always thrilled, throwing one more ball for you to play




ποιος είπε ότι τα κορίτσια δεν μαλακίζονται χωρίς να χρειαστεί να τα ξαπλώσεις;

το πιώμα έκανε τα χείλια μου κόκκινα
λιγάκι σταριλίκι, λιγάκι του δρόμου
δεν ήξερα να πίνω σαν εσένα

(εδώ που είμαστε εμείς μεθάμε κι άπιωτοι)

με παιδικές γουλιές κατάπινα
και τ΄άφηνα στο τραπέζι
μόνιμα μ' ένα καρδιοχτύπι

στο ζεστό στόμα του ποτηριού
μπορεί να μη θυμάσαι τίποτα
τόσον καιρό το κάνεις, θα το κατάφερες

silly, silly girl μ' έλεγες
πρόσωπο παιδιού με χείλια κόκκινα
που γελάει και με τα μάτια _


_______________

who told you girls don't masturbate without you having to lie them on their backs?

booze made my lips turn red
bit star-like, bit like a woman of the street
I didn't know how to drink like you did

(at this side of the world we get drunk even without the booze)

I swallowed childishly
I'd leave my glass on the table
constantly with a heart-race

on the warm mouth of your glass
you may have forgotten everything
you have been doing this for so long, you've probably done it

silly, silly girl, you used to call me
with the face of a red-lipped child
who laughs with her eyes_









Sunday, November 13, 2016

“If you fight a tiger you won't walk away and say, “hey, I fought a tiger.” 
When the tiger fights, he sees blood. Otherwise, he doesn’t fight.“
Sifu Hui Cambrelen





Saturnalia 
was a pagan festival 
(replaced by Christmas) 

it was marked by wantonness 
a total loss of self-control 
and the consumption of biscuits 
shaped like people

It is still celebrated 
in every fucking quark of my soul 
every time I remember you looking at me 






Saturday, November 12, 2016

The best feeling in the world is being pulled closer

He kissed me so slowly with an open mouth and every single thing in my body, my skin, my collarbone, the hollow backs of my knees, everything inside of me filled up with light.
_ Kathryn Stockett





That night, I put words in your mouth, 
little words with lots of s's in them, 
lowercase s’s and uppercase S’s… 
and I listened to you saying them 
on the surface of my skin, 
lower and lower in a long line 
until you couldn’t speak anymore 
except with your eyes. 

And afterward, I tasted them, 
all those S-words on your lips 
with their little fishhook shapes 
getting tangled up in mine. It was like 
monkeys in a barrel, or lovers 
lost in each other, unable to 
separate limb from limb, lip from lip, 
word from word.






People think of souls 
like they’re ghosts. 
A soul is not a ghost. 
A soul is a chair, a chair 
where our bodies sit. 
A place that rises in us 
when we need a home. 

I imagine our souls 
share a common arm 
because when I see beauty, 
when I see art that moves me, 
or hear a song that fills me… 
I can feel your hand in mine 
no matter where we are. 





You were caught off guard, 
just a little, simple thing, 
but I saw your soul 
and it was good, it was sweet 
and I couldn’t unsee it… 

I couldn’t unsee it. 
It was like a new mother 
hearing a baby cry 
and her milk comes through her shirt. 
Your soul was like that. 









There’s a man that always catches my bus in the afternoons and he always sits in the same spot (if it’s not taken). He gets on the stop after me and he always reads the same chapter in the same book. As soon as he gets on the bus and sits down he opens his book to chapter 45 which is titled, “And then It began.” It makes me wonder what significance that chapter has to him, and why he is always re-reading it. I may ask him one day, maybe after a few more friendly smiles and polite hellos…


* N.Ks. Jul.4th
somewhere in your sleep 
a dream settled in your hips 
and I heard you sigh
or moan and I wondered… 
how dangerous would it be 
if I touched you… 

if I touched you… 
in that other world of yours 
would my hand ever be mine again, 
or would it always carry your scent, 
would it always be wet 
if I touched you…







if we ever get to hold hands again
tell me a lie
tell me a lie and 
make it wild 
like Jesus running up to the cross 
ready for it_