See, that’s the thing you’re not getting, the part about the gods, or whatever you want to call what happens in the world…or doesn’t …or not as you had hoped —that if my wish for more direct or full attention, like a shout against all odds reaching the stage, is heard, I’ll be wishing just as plainly through the wreckage that it hadn’t been: a mirror, safe enough at a distance, has drawn you close—to tweeze, maybe, to pick at some less than radiant patch of skin —and you find yourself, later, unable to pull away. Looking not at your face anymore, but through to what, earlier, you must have missed: like a burst of starlings, the shape they make against an open sky: regret, fierce and no longer contained by some previously agreed-upon boundary. For them, it’s like a game—I’ll look away if you do, you tell them, you tell them back.
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- JEREMIAH BIKES ME HOMEon Monday evening, bleeding between bricks & concrete, indecisive direction, improper & traversing. weight lurching, we force forwards. when a prophet makes a mistake, I am not equipped to forgive. even if he asks. sweating, knees buckling, bobbing. we plead. jolted over curbs & branches, I recite the Lord’s prayer for the first time in ten years. somewhere, a boulder stumbles off a cliff & hits nothing on the way down. call & echo as response. no trespass of mine has been forgiven, Jeremiah shifts no gears. uphill, wobbling, winded. light splitting, we meet the end. amen. shake hands, rinse wounds. a red light in Asheville. small rabbit in the beam. baby brother, bouncing baby, your beautiful brother! yours. black snake electrical cord. fan whirring down. how to speak. black around neck. how to speak. winding down. still brother, yours. look for no transgression, look & it ends & it vaporizes. bearer of bad news, mouthpiece of messages bleeding between cracks. webbing between fingers. veins inside ankles. call to me & I will answer & yet I call wanting silence in return. once I return home, Jeremiah walks back alone.
- Poem in Which My Faggotry Fakes its Own DeathOn the eighth day, coquelicot, wearing my Armageddon earring, my faggotry jumped to its death from the foam spire of its death. & on the ninth: in paradise, titmice scrubbed its pearls with aftermath flax. From its suicide note: So men might once again flip you buffalo nickels. The being inside my having been so delicately razed itself into wondrous pink. Meaning my faggotry carried all of astrology & I wanted only the varmint baubles, little sex cowlick with which I coaxed maw into morrow, morrow into morning. How many times could I wake like that: gowns & waxwings, the paler gust before the gust that everyone remembers with a notch in the wall when a prodigal boy molts past his pastness? How many times could I join the hundred apocryphal boys nursing their empire stitch? Their faggotries, too, nixed themselves with lovability’s long & bedazzled shears: drowned in a tub filled with pink milk, Alice’d by an extra-large bottle of Rush. To build trust, we plunged the javelin of fey suspicion, deep & darkling, inch by inch, deeper into each other. I think we sought a new unto, as in the boys we barely let ourselves struggle to be, as in two yuan pieces, silver & tinkling, nearly crushing each other into the bottom of a celadon demitasse given as a gift by a lover who, nightly, conspired to push our faggotry from the glottal stopgap of the word he never said but always meant: not fickle, no, not fanged—but blood, yes, & its heavy shimmer.