Then they spider out, skitter and
caress, fingers relaxing,
cupping the cheek like an explosion holds the ground,
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Like you, all lonely,
Poets not all among them,
Not all, eloquent, not all seeking
Loneliness, what then?
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art is as useless as it is magnificent,
ugly and real and hurting like a white flame
- two faces of the same god
one that talks in riddles and lives blindfolded.
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Spilled words from her lips/ like red wine on white carpets. / She left many stains.
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You are a thief of my flesh; you split me like plum leaves
too early in the spring. Disrobed of what protects me;
one silver necklace undone, cotton to the floor.
Before you I am bare.
On the few nights
the moon shone brighter than streetlights,
we would climb out our windows
to drink the city air.
Let's be pragmatic: you can't hold on to something that is dissolving in your hands.
If I believed in prophets
then my pilgrimage would have started
when I was eight years old.
some avenue. some narrow,
pitious side street. some
lightening bug carcasses
strung up, still beaming.
Darkness holds the hands of light
In the crescent of the sun
And the birds cry
And the sloths dance
And the elephants beat their drums
When I met your bare skin with mine, innocently enough
- hands in passing, an arm brushing by -
the roar of my heart didn’t reach your ears.
I didn’t hear the beat of your footsteps hesitate outside my door,
the silence a question to which I did not answer
yes.
Midnights, you occasionally lingered
in my kitchen,
flicking cigarette ash in my sink
and sipping champagne
from my last plastic cup.
When you talk about beauty,
your body opens up—like a question.
Ground water swells out of your eyes,
rolls down the quiet side of your face.
These gods are young
and have not yet lived
through the consequences
of their destruction
In queer audiotopia the dance floor is heaven
and God is a black trans woman