We wear our truths differently. Sovereign flesh wrapped around temples; structures built to assimilate compassion, lust, pleasure, banality.

I like to watch suits move their hips with business-like fidelity. Our parallel experiences supporting infinite misunderstandings and corrupted exchange rates.

Concealed inside my imagination, these public gender performances are where the holy details embrace a gospel of presentation.


“The heart is the toughest part of the body.
Tenderness is in the hands.”
-Carolyn Forché Because One is Always Forgotten

What I wanted was to fade away in the sunshine,
listening to connections
woven under a sky the color of sodalite.

Earlier this week I read your words to reinforce why I disappeared,
an aversion therapy designed to manipulate positive resolutions.
I should have said: this is about you, not me.

I’ve taken reckless exposures to create discovery
to then be mapped out during early morning rituals of writing,
forming thousands of ways to interpret false impressions.

This confession is extraordinary precisely because it is true.
Between the conscientious details and intentional references
I remain transfixed in translation.

show me your secret

This is what light from a dying star looks like.

When the train emerges, I see the setting sun’s light accentuate
pastel houses and barren back yards.
I see beauty in the same way that blight and despair intensifies
hope and transcendence.
West Oakland West Oakland West Oakland

The softest and loudest parts of my body need my lips.
Show me your teeth and I’ll tell you a secret.
Tell me how you understand and what you see.

Narrating from experience connects but does not always bind.
I seek magic and want desire presented as enthusiasm.
I don’t need precise illumination just authentic submission to integrity.

I think about infinite loops
unwanted gifts
the golden rule
generating polyarchs.

This season of sun and sweaters is ironic and familiar.
The prairie landscape, a shadowless ocean of empty and quiet disappointments,
propagated an innate knowledge that light can be seen for miles
even in the deepest flat darkness.

this weekend never happened

The Angelus of Gala (Portrait of Gala) – Salvador Dali

There were places I was supposed to be this week.
Instead, I appreciated that my shadow was in front of me.

Living in bear country – a landscape of turn ons and fractured binaries –
I analyzed the world through a post-choice lens
and declared my love for the Datsun 510.

I remembered that 4th of July:
inappropriate miniskirt mixed with a zenith of vodka tonics
followed by a drive home powered by a miracle and freedom.

Reminders of where I used to be frame where I see myself now.
They are the optics that position an erotic that begets joy.