i went to the anarcho-communist meeting
nobody knew who was in charge
and an aggressive looking group of thuggish types
were monopolizing the juice and biscuits

I sat with him
gazed in his warm brown eyes
as he told me of
misunderstood philosophy
and anarcho-capitalism
and being an
agnostic vegan
out of boredom with his own
complacency.
And he pulled his pocket watch
out of his blazer
to check the time
but I could have told him
it would read half past
the debonair gentleman
and the social radical -
so, almost to the overpriveleged apathy
of our lives.
But I kept quiet.
I always did like a rebel.

Crease

I met someone today.
I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom
in my underwear, eyes gouging flesh like dull chisels,
with the same expression they adopted
when I first knew I wanted to be attractive:
No mercy.

I’ve been training to be a fighter
because after my last girlfriend- excuse me, partner-
excuse me, friend- excuse me,
partner- excuse me, friend- excuse me
Polyamory! Millennial shorthand for
Please **** me even though I don’t know what I want.

She revealed to me once that,
early on in our relationship and unsolicited,
she’d begun to refer to me as a they.
To this day, one half of me
believes she just couldn’t admit
to her radically feminist,
anarcho-permaculturalist
wild witch woman persona
that she’d fallen in love
with another cis white male.
The other half can’t help but smile
each time I recall the memory.

To be seen,
******* god, to be seen,
for someone to trace all the creases of your being with amorous fingertips
unfolding you as gently as an origami flower, gasping at you like art! -
then, a curling beneath your ribs, a closing of eyes,
cheeks and palms smudged terra cotta.

For 2 months straight, I woke up angry.
Few people know this sensation.
Most have only been kissed by rage;
slapped, provoked.
But when devastation gestates in your abdomen,
you can feel your body chemistry shift,
the oxygen in your blood replaced by volatile gases,
bones glowing white hot beneath unloved skin,
the tectonic plates of your psyche roiling,
every hissing breath a collision and separation.

I began to fear myself, this anger,
what it might take from me
after I was already pregnant with grief,
my body less and less my own,
so I threw myself at things I could not break-
all my polluted oceans, my clotted skies,
my smothered mountains and putrid valleys,
tearing them madly from my insides
that I would not see them birthed.


I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom
wondering how I will carry this.
Looking at my body again,
softer somehow;
my arms hewn and wiry,
my chest ample.
I see my stomach is scarce
as my gaze traces the angles of my hips.
My thighs thick against their garment,
I can’t help but twist to see my *** curve upward neatly.

I am standing at the mirror of my bathroom,
the same smooth bulge in the front of my briefs.
Under the fabric pulled between my thighs, a crease.

Economics of doing what you hate
Incellic feminast

The dead are our zoo animals.
Their cages beneath the soil.
Listen to the earth breathe
with their desiccated lungs cracking/creaking

They don't care if we watch them ****. Hidden from our view

I want my body
Thrown in the desert
The
coyotes
To gorge on me

The vultures to
Eat my sin
No countries
Contain my carbon

Imaginary
Photographs
Of happy days
To keep me in

No funeral music
No black veils
My smile
My skull
My own
I die alone

No paper can encapsulate my life
No tradition will give you closure
You cant steal closure

I don't know
what happened to Andri.
She was too good for this world-
few are.
I hope she is doing well,
wherever life took her
and I hope that she found the
anarcho-communist commune
she had always
desired.