5.10 / October 2010

So there’s this excellent Queer sociologist who said somewhere, in some article about some GLBT organization, that our sexual and gender identities are the source of both our oppression and liberation. (See what I did there? I used the “de-privileging of academia” as an excuse to be lazy and not look the dude up).

i am fifth in the line of twelve men prayin for the night to end some can wrap a prayer in gravy and straight conversate His name some marinate in ass sweat soaked up to the spine some can dark the hell outta a church door the eighth will get home to find steak still

YEAR OF THE PIG (A SPECTRAL ANALYSIS OF THE DEEPDENE DIAMOND AFFAIR) There is a small package on Lobert’s mailbox near the cafeteria. Lobert picks it up. He looks at it. Lobert walks on to the cafeteria. The cafeteria is closed. Lobert opens the package with a plastic fork, breaks fork, opens package with finger.

Poundingkissingpumping, then him trickling down my abdomen; sun-sinking & sweaty, bracing for my release. He waited (his fours over mine) but didn’t help. Touching? He wouldn’t. He was new and I— I was already sticky. He looked down, into my eyes & believed when I said I’m good.

Figure 1. She spends the first year of her life being dipped into fire, or the River Styx.   Story as a wholeness or constancy has not been conceived.   Of seven brothers, she is the only one to survive the process.

For my mother, her bra is just another piece of clothing. For me, it is a magical potion. My mother isn’t proud of her body at all. Specifically, she detests her breasts, and I smell that from the way she treats them.

How cool would it have been to live back when the wind and birds and avalanches sounded like Black Sabbath, and killing gave people these huge fucking hard-ons?   You’d be so dead.

Neil and I rented a side bedroom from his brother’s girlfriend for fifty dollars a month.     We called it our afternoon home—it was where we lived between the end of my school day and my ten o’clock curfew.

A yellow leaf hits my knuckles. I grip the tree. The old man behind me breathes on my scalp. I hear cars driving over the hill, past this picnic area, toward small-town Crabapple. I dig into his thrusts. He calls me “son,” “his boy,” even though I’ve just turned nineteen.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/jensen.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] I told him not to worry, that my favorite word is dyke, and my second favorite word is cunt. I told him that I left the army on good terms, considering, although I didn’t tell him considering what.

Casper brought forth inversion on an assured scientific standpoint, yet he condemns all sexuality, which requires for its manifestations some vice or insanity. Is no doubt. Is solely because. Is sexual inversion. Is an abnormality, is thus a narrower term. Is extremely varied. Is scarcely legitimate. Is easily translatable. Is another term.

After Lindsay Hunter I want Lindsay Hunter to hump me nude. I want her tits to brush my teeth with my eyes wide open. I’m a faggot can appreciate an ample bosom, cause tits is like asses with the cheeks up front.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/kitchell.mp3″ text=”listen to this story” dl=”0″] Darkness, night time, the woods, surrounding, movement in bushes, trees, the moon’s highlight, a hum of air, thick fog, clear skies, a bite of crunched sticks, leaves, the weather surrounds, late-fall, no path, forward momentum.

New Orleans, Louisiana August, 2005 1.

To preserve the poet’s original intent, this work is available for your reading pleasure as a PDF.

Dirge For Happy Happy? Why, with his little half-pint heart on sleeve—he lived mainly for Art and Laughter, yet couldn’t believe when the babes he pined after shined him on, saying all they ever wanted was to be his Friend.

For I shall praise Dorothy Allison For Dorothy Allison is fearless and angry, the pull of that anger, the pull and the fire For I do not like to be angry and I am most often afraid For while Dorothy Allison’s anger could plow down a mountain, Dorothy Allison’s jokes could make the Pope laugh

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/phelps.mp3″ text=”listen to this work” dl=”0″] Together, n queer men can form an ouroboros. Cases n>2: More common in cities. A segmented circle of feedback: a circuit so excited it shorts, but no one is shorted. Everyone desires the milk of his fellow man, and everyone shares his own.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/sofia.mp3″ text=”listen to this fairy tale” dl=”0″] La puerta del aseo está llena de inscripciones amorosas. Si no me hubiera entretenido leyéndolas, no habría oído cómo alguien entraba en el cubículo contiguo y se masturbaba lentamente, susurrando, entre jadeos, un nombre muy poco frecuente: el mío.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/seaton1.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] I contrasted nicely with unary, ternary, quarternary, and so on. In this way, I functioned hypothetically and trouble-free as a pair of   bosons, which, we know, will happily occupy one quantum state, unlike two fermions. Explosive, I fissioned and coded.

[wpaudio url=”/audio/5_10/barnes.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″] Widening my aperture for Ai (It’s what you want.

“Would you kiss a dead dog?” asked Jordan. He concentrated on my eyes to see if I’d flinch. I’d lose if I showed that I was grossed out. It would be conceding that rules had power over me.

The breeze plays patterns with the curtain, shifting it aside and letting in the sunlight, drifting flat against the sill. The boys sit and sweat. Mid-afternoon, and the room is tired and tanned as all of August. School’s out for summer. School’s out forever. We don’t need no education. “I’m bored.” “You said that already.

How long was I in the cardboard box? Hours? Surely not days? I was sore, hungry and, with mounting bladder pressure, worried. I occupied my mind by writing a poem about Soren Kierkegaard, who surely had it worse, until I heard ripping. That’s wrapping paper, I thought. I’m being opened. Honeyed light poured in.

All day it has been raining, and all day this poem has been sinking into my skin like sticky blossoms. The sky a grey-blue bucket, heavy and tarnished to its rims with copper lightning—shaking, rumbling, this rain I have carried in ruddy pails from far north to the sun-thick South.

There isn’t anything we can do from here.   They are too far out, mere dark dots on the bright brimming water, water as white, as gray and dark, as the clouds over it. “Must be cold,” I say.   Curt is watching them, holding himself, his chin on his knees.

This didn’t start with casual sex it was just a moment in a long string of moments that will end in our death I gave you my scarf because I wanted it back Worrying is the last thing on my mind because you’ll be on your back again & I’ll          

Son of a bastard-bitch! I am trying to do homework! I really am. But images, images won’t leave me the hell alone: Erika, when I was gripping her thighs, mouth working between her legs—her grinding, bucking up, begging me to fuck her—her words, not mine: “Fuck me, fuck me!” Begging! So I did.