What's not
torn down

by whatever
forces decide
to destroy:

The nails
worn with
yellow gloves

yes, and the
walloping water
that wicks wet,

is the same
sharp dry bursts
that blows up

cupcake confetti
through Pinkie's
party canon

Time's not real
but our energy is

waning and
unsubstantial

despite the waxy
substance sticking
stringing us together.

A touch of sun,
a lick of flame

melt away,
dissipate

"Regular Sized Rudy?
Why do they call you that?"
"Just look at me."

Yes, look at me. Are
the laces of my corset
tied tight enough?

Do I deserve lust
if ******* show
in this underbust?

Is my masculinity
compliant and
where it needs to be?

I was
raised Catholic
after all,
which means:

I've been
tenderly pruned
by the

Shears of
Catholic Guilt

She say baby hurry over
so I tell her okie doke

She got fiya and dank earthy buds
I call that oakey dope

Smoke and chillin netflix playin
Hoping I can hokey poke

Hello lone star,
not too far

I was you once
you were me

See there,
other star

I was you once
you were me

I've not been
writing lately.

I've chosen in
its stead to take
up wanting:

I want pastel
waist length curly
wigs, and acrylic length
nails filed not cut, crystals
galore, herbs, flowers, moss

And a poem to write
and publish itself to
earn some money;

at least enough
to afford a wig.

A *** puts
a lid on its
big mouth

to shut it up
and keep that good
hot stuff in.

There's a time
and place for
heat and steam:

Facials and saunas
and geysers but

nowhere else

I wanted to make
you happy and feel like life
Bright like mine, not yours

I feel
I learned
to speak

by reading.

I don't remember
the joy of shouting
with accuracy

some signified
entity aloud,

but I recall the sensation
of annoyance at sounding
out the toothsome shapes
at such a slow pace

compared to the force of
words creation exploding
in meaning and references

within such a
small space.