Send them back in.
Single file.

Chained to the images
of those that cannot be competed with.

One arrives with a first awakening
Accidentally stumbling upon enlightenment

Another wears his families crest
A four leaf clover
Boasting of the way his blood takes to Pilsner
And the gut to estrogen

Another takes a stroll down to the red brick corner
Where he gives his best political speech
To the addicts huddled beneath scaffolding
off Broadway and 9th St.

I must inspect them.
Every cavity.
As if I am playing Doctor.
Playing house.
Playing sister.
Playing mother.

Every question,
a perfect script.

And I am bored.

Too accustomed to the coming, and going.
To the narrative of introduction.
To the silence between notes.

No, Darling,
I would not leave you angry,
I would not give you the satisfaction
of leaving you feeling despair.
Despair is another reason to sink further
into the comfortable hell.

The pounding of molten things.
The slickness of shame.
And, the heat of jealousy.

I should leave. I should leave.

I’ll leave you with instructions.

I’ve taken my notes.
I’ve turned myself inside out with you.
I’ve let you show me all of your fears.

And if I am startled,
it was only because
I was a good animal.
I knew the melted mammalian mind
of human skin.
I knew the violence of possession.
But I want to be human.

I want to not be caged.
I want to live outside
of the traverse electric
of your biting retort.

I want to not
lock myself into, your science,
your mother’s expectation.

I wish I did not feed you so easily.
I wish I did not find all of your allusions
so trite.

Send them in again.
Single file.
Chained to the ghosts of men
already greater than them.

I’ve loved too hard, Dear.
Gutted, stretched, contorted, used
and twisted.

I saw. Died to see that
God did not love me.
That only Archons
inhabit my periphery.

I cannot play small any longer.
If I die without a lover now.
I would be happy.

There is nothing you can give me.
I have known great love.
And for that, I am thankful.

This saccharine mammalian.

This act of becoming.
This super imposition.

Nothing gets me drunk enough.

Not like the wine
from that small case we found.
That hidden intoxicant.
Atop the anemic ladder.

That kind.


(Image from: Un Chant D’Amour, Jean Genet, 1972)


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