I am saying no
to a stressor
recoil from that rivulet to
rivet
join hands in hopes of a friend emerging between us
“Dead Woman’s Comb” reminded me of Marguerite Duras’ consistently dying girl how long I have longed
to write only the narratives between things which is stillness which is space filling up which is the full on
orgasm and what kind of way of saying could enact that
left grammar behind impossible masculinities free gesticulation to a nature attuned with animal’s upward
gaze lying on the back in the hot sun of a cold winter a fox’s eyes
during the time I wrote hundreds of pages about inability to connect with clouds tried to explain how
gender can be both authentic and inauthentic at the same time bruised my knees trying for
ground
publisher after publisher rejecting
the inspiration
put a wad of hair on the pine tree’s tip for her wish I could hug her in person be persons together hold
space watch each other’s back
remember when Jeanne de’Arc possessed dream and memory her hymnal a hymen she stated gestural
conflation informed my choice to send to the first twenty who had bought the book tendrils of my hair I
believe in sending friends hair nests
could she be? a cloud a fob bouncing sensuous secrets?
confident confidante
in dreams I had been hearing musical cues wondering when the queue would be so full it would result in
“full on” arrival her something literal as a fruit expanding in the squeezing hand “full Music on” a rainy day
a sadness procures the flexed hand is exhausted
LET GO
is there a missing piece to your
role? is it soul?
how would you know
so
without knowing
you were born with your heart already
broken
you can’t resist_______
form inhabiting ephemera
critical sans cadence literally hurts
(my) authenticity
while fettered plumes surprise
drowning the dock
means more feather stars on this beautiful
planet
