anniversary of breathing

Did I ever tell you of that memory, seeing “F” beside my name and thinking it stood for Friday. Thinking: this must have been the day I was born. To be defined by a day of the week, rather than smudged genitalia. Wouldn’t that have been something.

* * * *

(conversation between two)

I thought about labeling myself as a couch. Slipping that into my gender marker. 

Why?

Well, I’ve been sat on. My springs are loose. I’ve had overnight guests drape themselves all over me. Notice all these stains. Crumbs of lost meals. 

I guess that sounds like you.

Right? I had a partner call me wishbone once. Maybe I’ll just refer to myself as bone scraps.

* * * *

Today could be referred to as some sort of anniversary:

The day I ripped open my mom’s body.

Or the moment I breathed in the fumes of new jersey for the very first time.

& an accumulation of stretch marks and toiletries.

Or reminder of all the friends I’ve lost track of.

Just another reason to eat cake.

* * * *

An ode to me:

Everyday, before coffee 
& kiss-climb limbs against my other,
I 
inventory my parts to make sure they still remain:
all my teeth, or the ones which matter
gather up bouquet of knots left behind 
on pillow case
feel around for leftover meals 
clinging to my cheek
swallow all the yesterdays that 
have a difficult time being left

today,
i try not to batter my hips with
too much judgmental
too much writer's block
too much emphasis on the 
black hole of bank account

today,
i eat cake
because i am supposed to
because i want to
because i can call myself a couch
or a loaf of bread
or i can call myself door number three
and even if no one else notices, 
i see the evolution of breaths 
on my soul

what it is to be a loser

Last month, I got the incredible opportunity to perform in the Phillip Giambri’s excellently curated show, “The Loser Project”. Below is a video from the performance at Cornelia Street Cafe in NYC.

the heroic body

originally published by great weather for MEDIA

 

When I was twenty-six, I gave my body away. But also at nineteen. And maybe twelve. Details are unimportant and have already been documented through ripped skin and hollowed tongue, so instead, I’ll make a mix tape of the trauma:

1. Do I Move You?—Nina Simone
2. Another Lonely Day—Ben Harper
3. Colorblind—Counting Crows
4. La valse d’Amelie—Yann Tiersen
5. Burning Bridges—Chris Purkea
6. Cleaning Apartment—Clint Mansell
7. Change of Address—Marina Marina
8. Fjogur Piano—Sigur Ros
9. February—Gregory Alan Isakov
10. The Rip–Portishead
11. Dumb—Nirvana
12. I Bleed-Pixies
13. Son’s Gonna Rise—Citizen Cope
14. That Moon Song—Gregory Alan Isakov
15. Wake Up—Arcade Fire
16. Home Again—Michael Kiwanuka
17. Red Dust—James Vincent McMorrow
18. The Winner Is—Devotchka
19. Remember Me as a Time of Day—Explosions in the Sky
20. Breathe Me–Sia

&

I’ll alphabetically list colors that could create a collage bright enough to illustrate it:

1. alabaster
2. bloodied knee from fist fight
3. cysts
4. denim
5. exercise on a body after thirty-six years of sporadic movement
6. forgotten grapes left in backpack from a camping trip, found six months later
7. guitar string—the unplucked one
8. how can one really describe purple
9. illiterate notebooks, smudged from the rain/ someone left the windows open so now all that is left to read is / mold
10. january sky on a friday four hours before snowstorm
11. krystal meth [sic]
12. left wrist after the breakdown
13. marzipan
14. nest of loons
15. orgasm (the kind that means something)
16. pie crust—overbaked
17. quetzal
18. radish
19. something similar to yellow, but more like rubberband
20. the inside of her kiss
21. umbilical chord left unsnipped until first birthday
22. very sour cherries
23. what suburban new jersey looks like when you are high
24. x-girlfriend’s mole
25. your biggest secret
26. zest from pomelo

or

perhaps it is even more accurately documented in this transcript which traveled from public bathroom floor to underneath chuck taylors to my hands, raw from —-

X: It meant nothing.

Y: Only if nothing means the carpal tunnel syndrome of wounds.

X: Pardon?

Y: The numb. Knowing there is something there, waking up. Trying to yawn out of skin, but—

X: It can’t.

Y: Nothing means nothing anymore. Everything is found. Known. Cut-up into an argument.

X: But. But it can go away.

Y: Only if away means a permanent disconnection of hypnotized raw. The uncooked symbolism of everything that has been taken.

X: Or given—

Y: Yes…away.

tonight!!! queer art organics!!

Come to Dixon Place at 161 Chrystie Street in NYC for some magnificent poetry and storytelling.

7-8:30pm FREE!!!!

(starts promptly at 7:30pm)

Queer Art Organics: 

poetry, spoken word, storytelling, comedy, performance art…..

 

With the incredible features:

Drae Campbell

Lenair Xavier

Skye Cabrera