doubleu-el-ar - Hello Poetry

I can almost taste how tense those muscles are when they swing the red-hot tire-iron into my face again and again And oh, how the blood keeps coming and oh, how it pools on the uneven concrete Steamy and globby and staring at my contorted jaw and the hard lines of arms using my skull like a drum More thwacks and now human barbecue as teeth drop into the syrupy mix and float like islands and I think of A.1. steak sauce One second of silence and I wipe my hands on my thighs The only difference between jeans and a dress is about six inches and I start to wonder Which six until my head jerks left and then right again and God, don't those ******* arms ever get tired I lick my licks and lap up the red that must be running down my chin Tastes like maraschino cherries and some other flavor I can't quite grasp I search the tip of my tongue for it but find only the holey ridges in my gums and suddenly I realize Maybe that flavor is the six inches that separate jeans from dresses But then I laugh, and somewhere far above me someone else does too.

0

Jun 20, 2015

Jun 20, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC

Which Six

I can almost taste how tense those muscles are when they swing the red-hot tire-iron into my face again and again And oh, how the blood keeps coming and oh, how it pools on the uneven concrete Steamy and globby and staring at my contorted jaw and the hard lines of arms using my skull like a drum More thwacks and now human barbecue as teeth drop into the syrupy mix and float like islands and I think of A.1. steak sauce One second of silence and I wipe my hands on my thighs The only difference between jeans and a dress is about six inches and I start to wonder Which six until my head jerks left and then right again and God, don't those ******* arms ever get tired I lick my licks and lap up the red that must be running down my chin Tastes like maraschino cherries and some other flavor I can't quite grasp I search the tip of my tongue for it but find only the holey ridges in my gums and suddenly I realize Maybe that flavor is the six inches that separate jeans from dresses But then I laugh, and somewhere far above me someone else does too.

13

Like...it feels like whole world and the, you know, uh...all the smily candy teeth and stoned-out-of-their-mind ******* with their lip service to some techno-God of...what? Acceptance and power dynamics, or empowerment or whatever... It's like they're out there building these monoliths to themselves...like, mirrors made out of diamonds that's all positivity and critical theories and **** even Heidegger or Nietzsche thrown in there, Foucault, Lorde sometimes, a lot of other names, too...so much to remember when you wade into the world of identity, right? But it's also so sugary that I get a headache, like, when I see the steel roots that they're...repurposing? I keep tripping over them and stuff, I dunno. Queer's a word I hear mostly coming out of only my own mouth, maybe the walls...if wall's could talk, right?...and that really tells me a lot, I guess? About what it means to be a *** but like, not really? And how I'm totally not trans? I mean I'm still BASICALLY a boy, right? Like shouldn't I be like, calling myself a girl if I'm not a boy, etc.? The stony monuments to Liberation...they're using the big L right?...tell me so. I'm so close but still not good enough, or something like that. The binaries are there for a reason, etc. Not even that. Just a quiet, like...exclusion? Joke? What I wouldn't give to be a fully-fledged ****** or a true ****** y'know?...card-carrying member of the conference, where I can actually cry and my voice comes out in something other than a croak and people look at my tears and hear my words and say, Yes, that's real and that's okay? Whatever though. I'm probably wrong anyway, right? I'm just half-baked, or not exactly full, or...what's the word?

0

May 7, 2015

May 7, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC

In the Land of the Half-Baked Trannies

Like...it feels like whole world and the, you know, uh...all the smily candy teeth and stoned-out-of-their-mind ******* with their lip service to some techno-God of...what? Acceptance and power dynamics, or empowerment or whatever... It's like they're out there building these monoliths to themselves...like, mirrors made out of diamonds that's all positivity and critical theories and **** even Heidegger or Nietzsche thrown in there, Foucault, Lorde sometimes, a lot of other names, too...so much to remember when you wade into the world of identity, right? But it's also so sugary that I get a headache, like, when I see the steel roots that they're...repurposing? I keep tripping over them and stuff, I dunno. Queer's a word I hear mostly coming out of only my own mouth, maybe the walls...if wall's could talk, right?...and that really tells me a lot, I guess? About what it means to be a *** but like, not really? And how I'm totally not trans? I mean I'm still BASICALLY a boy, right? Like shouldn't I be like, calling myself a girl if I'm not a boy, etc.? The stony monuments to Liberation...they're using the big L right?...tell me so. I'm so close but still not good enough, or something like that. The binaries are there for a reason, etc. Not even that. Just a quiet, like...exclusion? Joke? What I wouldn't give to be a fully-fledged ****** or a true ****** y'know?...card-carrying member of the conference, where I can actually cry and my voice comes out in something other than a croak and people look at my tears and hear my words and say, Yes, that's real and that's okay? Whatever though. I'm probably wrong anyway, right? I'm just half-baked, or not exactly full, or...what's the word?

3

None of clothes are right and so I am not human. Only cold winds and crazed neon. I sometimes shine a flashlight under my fingers to remind myself of my bones. But they're as breathlike and photonic as the plastic tears I will never be given the right to have. *We know that **** ain't real.* How brittle a (we) can be. What sound is my voice allowed to have other than the violent dance of glass on concrete? My happiness always hangs from the end of a baseball bat. And that's the way things are. Of course, my mantras are just idolatry or faggotry. Systems of oppressive heat and chemical equations either pat me on the back or slap me across the face and I can never quite seem to catch my breath or feel an embrace, not really. My forehead burned, but I closed my eyes. How heavy must my skin and eyelashes and all the things that encase me, engender me, hang about me before I can finally count myself beloved? The question is as impossible as my own humanity, and my existence is not so self-evident that kiwis taste like queer fruits. So until smiles lose their tartness and I can breathe at last, **** you.

0

Apr 5, 2015

Apr 5, 2015 at 2:20 AM UTC

!

None of clothes are right and so I am not human. Only cold winds and crazed neon. I sometimes shine a flashlight under my fingers to remind myself of my bones. But they're as breathlike and photonic as the plastic tears I will never be given the right to have. *We know that **** ain't real.* How brittle a (we) can be. What sound is my voice allowed to have other than the violent dance of glass on concrete? My happiness always hangs from the end of a baseball bat. And that's the way things are. Of course, my mantras are just idolatry or faggotry. Systems of oppressive heat and chemical equations either pat me on the back or slap me across the face and I can never quite seem to catch my breath or feel an embrace, not really. My forehead burned, but I closed my eyes. How heavy must my skin and eyelashes and all the things that encase me, engender me, hang about me before I can finally count myself beloved? The question is as impossible as my own humanity, and my existence is not so self-evident that kiwis taste like queer fruits. So until smiles lose their tartness and I can breathe at last, **** you.

7

if only radiowaves tasted like honey or each incandescent laugh was lined with sugar and I could close my eyes and dream away my burning forehead being cooked by alien eyes and these hilltops would finally yield milky wheat in breathless smiles and airy sighs hard teeth and candy apples might seem a bit less hateful

0

Mar 16, 2015

Mar 16, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC

whey

if only radiowaves tasted like honey or each incandescent laugh was lined with sugar and I could close my eyes and dream away my burning forehead being cooked by alien eyes and these hilltops would finally yield milky wheat in breathless smiles and airy sighs hard teeth and candy apples might seem a bit less hateful

7

my teeth are sensitive too-- candy smoke strangles them they are the crown jewels of some British empire one day at the circus he bought me popcorn, and boy how the unpopped kernels cut my gums. I laughed and the iron taste blanketed my tongue. I noticed my chair had only three legs, and my scarf was red and sticky o world, how I want to shake your head and tear wires from the fusebox to taste the sound of incandescent crackling and burnt popcorn o shining irises, where is your citrus now?

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Nov 13, 2014

Nov 13, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC

The Disillusioned Medea

my teeth are sensitive too-- candy smoke strangles them they are the crown jewels of some British empire one day at the circus he bought me popcorn, and boy how the unpopped kernels cut my gums. I laughed and the iron taste blanketed my tongue. I noticed my chair had only three legs, and my scarf was red and sticky o world, how I want to shake your head and tear wires from the fusebox to taste the sound of incandescent crackling and burnt popcorn o shining irises, where is your citrus now?

8

The way the harsh light bounces off your skin makes me think your face is electric. Soft pores and sunshine fleshtones. Almost like your face is the sun, and you are the son of the sun. The Son of the Sun. The Son of Man. On the wall, the clock ticks loudly. Ticking is just another word for stabbing. Looking across the room, I can see the angry, inflamed air. It has pus and blood. It's gaping. I draw a shallow breath and taste saltiness. You draw a breath and taste nougat. When you do, I can't help but look at your teeth. Your pearlywhites. Vanilla gelato. Sweet and good to eat. Were we ever friends? Could we be? A smile sneaks its way in at the corner of your mouth, and your foot begins to tap. I can't tell whether the ticking is making the noise anymore, or your foot. Twelve years from now, you walk down the street with your son on your shoulders and your wife at your side. While you and your boy eat Baby Ruths, she snaps a picture. In it, the nougaty center is clearly visible. It looks like your skin. Sunshiney and soft and not salty at all.

0

Oct 22, 2014

Oct 22, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC

Baby Ruth

The way the harsh light bounces off your skin makes me think your face is electric. Soft pores and sunshine fleshtones. Almost like your face is the sun, and you are the son of the sun. The Son of the Sun. The Son of Man. On the wall, the clock ticks loudly. Ticking is just another word for stabbing. Looking across the room, I can see the angry, inflamed air. It has pus and blood. It's gaping. I draw a shallow breath and taste saltiness. You draw a breath and taste nougat. When you do, I can't help but look at your teeth. Your pearlywhites. Vanilla gelato. Sweet and good to eat. Were we ever friends? Could we be? A smile sneaks its way in at the corner of your mouth, and your foot begins to tap. I can't tell whether the ticking is making the noise anymore, or your foot. Twelve years from now, you walk down the street with your son on your shoulders and your wife at your side. While you and your boy eat Baby Ruths, she snaps a picture. In it, the nougaty center is clearly visible. It looks like your skin. Sunshiney and soft and not salty at all.

2

it's late and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell ringing for each hour like a stab wound smelling like salt and New York Harbor as if i were a navyman like him but silence washes over the room in a wave and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space his room is a short poem, then-- an archipelago, each island a monolith: near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams) a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard then another, even heavier and dripping with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it a tv crowns it, almost aggressively simple, burying history under Technicolor a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown geometric paradise in brown and white emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical) and no extra space used (except for the bed-- large, a remnant of divorce) and then, once again, i smell the sea as the clock strikes something or maybe something-thirty

0

Sep 23, 2014

Sep 23, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC

Wooden Teeth (in technicolor)

it's late and the first thing i hear is the clock's bell ringing for each hour like a stab wound smelling like salt and New York Harbor as if i were a navyman like him but silence washes over the room in a wave and in its undertow the sands of my father are left behind if my father was a poet he'd love all the white space his room is a short poem, then-- an archipelago, each island a monolith: near the navy clock (born from saltwater and teenage dreams) a dresser that could tell stories of wooden teeth and Blackbeard then another, even heavier and dripping with ancient handiwork--Marie Antoinette ate cake off it a tv crowns it, almost aggressively simple, burying history under Technicolor a rug kneels in front of Marie & her crown geometric paradise in brown and white emptiness otherwise, just white walls (comfortably clinical) and no extra space used (except for the bed-- large, a remnant of divorce) and then, once again, i smell the sea as the clock strikes something or maybe something-thirty

25

in that moment my fingertips could almost taste you, your delicate wig powdered with virginal white, the crushed velvet of your robes my fingertips could almost taste you, not this still museum air-- the crushed velvet of your robes stank of oil and nothing like you this still museum air and the arch of your back & line of your jaw stank of oil and nothing like you, but i wanted to be in your arms, the arch of your back and line of your jaw o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once? i wanted to be in your arms, but i felt the kisses of the gas lamps o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once, your delicate wig powdered with virginal white? i felt the kisses of the gas lamps in that moment

0

Sep 22, 2014

Sep 22, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC

colonial shoes, redux

in that moment my fingertips could almost taste you, your delicate wig powdered with virginal white, the crushed velvet of your robes my fingertips could almost taste you, not this still museum air-- the crushed velvet of your robes stank of oil and nothing like you this still museum air and the arch of your back & line of your jaw stank of oil and nothing like you, but i wanted to be in your arms, the arch of your back and line of your jaw o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once? i wanted to be in your arms, but i felt the kisses of the gas lamps o cobblestone eyes, why couldn't i see you just once, your delicate wig powdered with virginal white? i felt the kisses of the gas lamps in that moment

20

and on the air I taste the brine of your laughter (but where is my crown?). I can feel my skin cry out for better days; some long-gone error-ridden age as it feasts on my memory with hungry teeth. Only godlike garbage grows here, where among the grey matter, divinity inches its way in in jumbled fragments. These images can't be kept in messy tableaus for long: entropy stops for no man (or woman or beast or). Our neverland is top-full of hymns: o, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Prayer comes in bizarre questions, and answers drawn out in raspy breaths. I want to see each one, smoky and staining the teeth that asked (like they could ever understand). I want to feel the voluptuousness of the unknown, riding each wave to the sandy shore. I want to never x-out days again, never wait to hit yet another zero.

0

Sep 9, 2014

Sep 9, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC

Hang Ten

and on the air I taste the brine of your laughter (but where is my crown?). I can feel my skin cry out for better days; some long-gone error-ridden age as it feasts on my memory with hungry teeth. Only godlike garbage grows here, where among the grey matter, divinity inches its way in in jumbled fragments. These images can't be kept in messy tableaus for long: entropy stops for no man (or woman or beast or). Our neverland is top-full of hymns: o, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Prayer comes in bizarre questions, and answers drawn out in raspy breaths. I want to see each one, smoky and staining the teeth that asked (like they could ever understand). I want to feel the voluptuousness of the unknown, riding each wave to the sandy shore. I want to never x-out days again, never wait to hit yet another zero.

26

Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another--physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought. oh to see my mirrored image rise and fade into smoke masking divine faces and beautiful pillows (laced with gold so pretty) in an ***** den my body bursts with imperfections and i can't bear to look while shutters flutter over lenses where prettiness blooms like sunflowers yellow and bright like so many better than me how can i ever match the daisies and the crisp cool shirts that move them to tears? what sandy shore has my shape earned? reflecting pools sing in shrill tongues like earbleed eyes and heart are locked together eyeline to lifeline a rome-born French Connection and i can only look from miles away heavy but Lord was she ugly.

0

Jun 22, 2014

Jun 22, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC

the bluest eye

Along with the idea of romantic love, she was introduced to another--physical beauty. Probably the most destructive ideas in the history of human thought. oh to see my mirrored image rise and fade into smoke masking divine faces and beautiful pillows (laced with gold so pretty) in an ***** den my body bursts with imperfections and i can't bear to look while shutters flutter over lenses where prettiness blooms like sunflowers yellow and bright like so many better than me how can i ever match the daisies and the crisp cool shirts that move them to tears? what sandy shore has my shape earned? reflecting pools sing in shrill tongues like earbleed eyes and heart are locked together eyeline to lifeline a rome-born French Connection and i can only look from miles away heavy but Lord was she ugly.

26