thirty-nine lines



Lets see
where am i
can you explain
Im back from a long trip home
and you?
say things to me
too much blue
Lets understand what I see
do you follow
itlooks strange i
Im going back home
be a part expand
this machine wants me to explain
others and me
again home
don't be so sad to see
this soo i
I want you
be you
don't explain
dont i
dont know me
I dont know myself, I see
you home
you are home
you don't need to go back, you
are free, see
you don't feel unconfortable
I do i
I never passed the test to adapt to trashtalking i
within community, I m never home
I will never adapt to trashtalking
to false communication
that one that is everywhere
that perpetuates with every single person you meet round
where is real?
where is non false world?
non plastic world?


Because all I can see is plastic
people acting like jerks to one another, in attitude, in gesture
but be patient
or dont
Im throwing myself at the streets!
night! days! no plastic!
days full of sun
to meet people random
and I will share with them
react, cry, yell and express my sincere self me! stop the theatre!
no film
next time I feel
next day Iam throwing flowers everywhere on the street of the girl
no more plastic
no more
no more being false
no more of all that shyness because of intense consideration of what the other wants to hear, wants to see
they can act
I dont
I wont
its brutal, violent
whats with that think they call humor?
hu--what patient thats easy way to opress, reduct
etc, dont
jokes about wht?
make fun of
what a bad concept of living and interacting
go watch disclosure by sam feder
thats what their humor is for
they can act
but its too violent for everyone
we dont want that mask on
so Iam talking sincere
Now, see, If I like a girl, I wont play plastic, I will say to her
Its the end of feeling rpressive
of autorepression*
I do want


my soft yolk heart is thinking of you today
love doesn't feel how i expected to. it's more orange,
more all-encompassing. what i feel for you
refracts a million times, through everyone i've ever loved,
myself, a curly boy i sat across from on the train,
my mother. today i'm wondering what it would be like
if we were together, by a lake, touching shoulders. like
maybe i'm holding your hand today
or you're making me a sandwich. or we're on the train
in one of those above ground lines. and the sky's turning orange
and by you and by me and by the whole world i'm loved
a softness pouring into everything. it's you
and i finally get the meaning of it all! you
would probably be blushing if you knew i was writing poetry about you. like
all these funny words for what it feels like to be loved
and i'm typing them all into the website of someone i don't know. today
i miss you so much, but there's no ache. i want to feed you an orange
just so i can walk away from you knowing you ate today. the train
is rumbling below the ground below my window. the train
is carrying so many people and none of them are you
i'm losing the words but i see us on a beach together and it's orange
and i'm wearing your sweatshirt, the one that i like
and we have no homework to do today
because who cares. none of that matters when you're loved
i want to be everyone you've ever loved
refracting through you. i want to sit on a train
next to you, touching knees, sharing the pole. today
all i did was walk to the grocery store and back. you
would think i would've eaten more than a bowl of oatmeal. i think you'd like
the way the sky turns over the trees, when it's not cloudy. a nostalgic orange
we are naked together in bed and i'm peeling an orange
and i'm feeding it to you slice by slice because i loved
how the sun hit your face, the wrinkle at the corner of your eye. like
i can really see us getting old together! on a train
it's you, in bed it's you, you you you
i like the way my lips feel when i say your name. today
like every other day, i didn't pay for the train.
"loved" is a word i'll never say about you,
because i'll always feel that orange! just like i do today


i wonder: what exactly *is* a martingale?
a kind of bird, perhaps? like a nightingale? do you
think a martingale could sing? or is it poetical and mute
like a dumb fruit? and do you think it would die
if we kept it - err, her - inside our house?
or would she have a chance
to stay alive? no, i suppose, not a chance
we could bear to keep a gentle martingale
chained goldfinchlike to a little birdhouse.
okay, then, new plan: what about a curtain instead? it's what you
always wanted, after all, that deep red dye,
so lovely and so sensual and so expensive. yes, let's. we'll commute
three miles uptown, to the neon-signs office where they permute
shuffle shake up the chances.
you and i and the magi will vigorously vigorishly roll a six-sided die,
canary in a coal mine martingale
in a mole, mine, and with you
at my side from house to house -
for you, my dear, it'll be a full house!
smile, and watch the dealer transmute
less to more like water to wine for you!
it's enough to cover up those french doors, i'll say. (once i chanced
upon a book, a menagerie of martingales.
i almost bought it for you, but it cost a handkerchief-curtain dime.)
i've discovered that a martingale is not a bird. i
looked it up, it's something for horses. a house-
broken horse blinder? how faithless! curtains curtail unbirdlike like the insides of eyelids, and martingales
keep you straight and true like a trained malemute.
but where to? to whatever fortune might bechance
us if only i could love you? no need for martingales, then: i only have eyes for you only have eyes only for you
look! sex bitcoin mayonnaise facebook are nothing, no, this is no life. you
pondered with me once, pillow moist, fingers in my hair, what it is to die
even in life to die to sleep to sleep - perchance
to dream… tell me, are dreams on the house?
no! it's visions only, and the ads play on mute.
(and yet - still softly sings my dear martingale.)
i saidwhen i get a chance to see you
again, speak not of martingales, and i
will house in this beating heart a feeling shared and mutual.


I am grown and boiling over
my heart is unsteady and beats wild
I make a mean mentor to myself a child
but I am not. here I am grown
taken over by a strange possession called age
that prompts me to keep going and going
but I'm here. I'm aging and I'm going
I'm trying to stretch it out before it's over
I plough through and refuse to act my age
everything's too much. the world too wild
to handle if you only act like you are grown
sometimes it's best to embrace yourself the child
at times though you cannot afford to be the child
the child is not the one who keeps things going
I am positive that here I am grown
and I have done this over and over
so many times it could drive a person wild
but this time it will be different. it's the dawn of a new age
but an age is just that: an age
it lasts a long time. as a child
time seemed to go on forever, a wild
and unkempt ravel of yarn going
for miles but then those miles are over
then you are grown
and that's the thing about being grown
we slow down but time quickens with age
before you know it the day is over
you begin a new one. you were once a child
and now you don't know where the years are going
for years you've missed the blackberries growing wild
you used to be so carefree and wild
never caring for the weeds that had grown
in your garden, always going
about things like a man from the stone age:
with singular purpose, for that is the way of the child
never pausing to think things over
perhaps I have again reached a wild age
I was always going to end up once again a child
will I ever truly be grown? will my growing ever really be over?


it's true, I do things rather gayly
I do not hide in my delight
I am not quiet. I hum rather happily
as I go about my daily agenda
though it may seem a little queer
I am in fact a homosexual
a day in the life of a homosexual:
get up, get dressed (gayly)
eat your eggs and toast although they might taste queer
it's just the utter sweetness of your delight
next up on our agenda
we must go about our day happily
what could put us in the mood to hum happily?
why, I suppose the hint is in the name homosexual
the highest priority on this here agenda
is doing sex, but gayly
with another woman, and I'm a woman, to my delight
hey! I'm married and I'm queer!
I used to really dislike the word queer
but now I guess I'm using it happily
in a poem I'm writing out my delight
in being a gay lesbian queer dyke homosexual
I will sing it out gayly
I will proclaim my agenda
and yes, there is more to that agenda
than doing sex, more than that to being queer
I talk gayly, dress gayly, think gayly, even walk around gayly
but most of all, what makes me hum happily
is fighting for the rights of other trans people and homosexuals
that's what brings me the most delight
it's been a great delight
to be married (that was on the agenda)
something I used to be disallowed from as a homosexual
but now I am proud and married and queer
my wife and I live together happily
and every day we say we love each other and kiss (gayly)
it's my delight to be this queer
I promote my agenda happily
I walk this world a homosexual, proudly, and gayly