a grim arithmetic

“It is not a matter of words for things. Rather it is a matter of distance between the word and the thing” (Nathalie Stephens).

It is not a matter of the limbs of speech, rather the foliage growing from it. 

1. Pasts are like bones. They grow and rip shards of internal bruising from within. When is the right time to disrobe. When is the right time to tell a new lover about the time you _______ or _________ and how about when you used to ____________ and almost ________ because of  ____________. My baggage is mismatched and crumbled. It has been stolen and lost, but always finds its way back to me with pieces missing.

2. Sole mate < or = to soul mate. There is so much fear in learning how to kiss a new mouth. Some lips are dressed in whale fat and others are waxed and peppermint’d. I can love beyond the parts. What I search for now is to find another who sees beyond mine.

3. Stop asking what she is. It is not always one answer; it is not always a word that has been assigned sound.

4. I desperately held onto love as though it could just exist through and with one person. And then, I met another. And then another after that one. When we think love is gone, there is (always) another human breathing up earth…on their way to you. Just inhale and be ready.

5. Pass (verb) 1 move or cause to move in a specified direction:/ change from one state or condition to another: . / die (used euphemistically):/ go past or across; leave behind or on one side in proceeding: / go beyond the limits of; surpass; exceed:/ come to an end……../ / / It does not always have to be this or that. There is so much empowerment in the “other” and in the “in between” exploration of all sides. When I bind [some of my] parts, I am just trying to allow room for silence. Beyond the masculine, there are syllables that have no gender.  [I’ve spent over three decades trying to pass and I am just now figuring out that none of it made sense for a reason.]

6. Everything that came before today is a rorshach’d survival stain. That is, memories are like lovers; they never really leave us.

7. How to love or lust away from what hides behind zippers and skin.

8. Do not wait for death to remember them.

9. Before supper, burn fragments of what must be left behind and what needs to remain.

10. Gorge on the kindled harassment of stanzas that question every entity on [your] skin; this is what happens when the only thing left to distract are pronunciated infernos.

romantique et trempé

Where does it begin? What leads us to desire something such as a direct stare or pressed fingers against small curve in lower back. What causes us to expose our ribcage to the ones who give us flowers or cupcakes or buttered bruises.

Communion is cannibalism (Nathalie Stephens) 

This is a rebirth. This kiss cleans out last year. And (their) touch of verbs against (my) nouns rebirths (my) solitude into springtime roots.

This unsleeping noiseless mouthing. This fanaticism desperate unbelieving. This two fingers sewn together tearing. (Stephens)

Pain is everywhere and it circles like napping dandelions blown up from toothless exhale. It is instrumental, strung up and stung by                                    by    swatted fingernails.

Your language gives me order. It says nothing of la douleur. (Stephens)

Oh agony of hips     weeds of gender pulled out and suddenly we are Picasso drips     we are gargantuous grips of desire. We are one and nothing and bits of what we once were and what we can be and what we hate and what and what.

And my thigh still grows a city. And you will not name it. (Stephens)