Two Poems

Mutually Naked Condition

That’s what I’ll call it
from now on. That state of being
collectively hideous:
skinsweat bodyglove obvious
to self and to other
self. I am not okay
with tongue this and tongue that.
With saliva cocoon.
With this awkwardly
impulsive immediacy.
The stratosphere is lopsided,
the view from above an earthquake
of curves. But we share this
Shiva contortion act,
this mutually naked
condition where parts merge
into a gestalt, a joining
of mine and yours and whatever
else is trapped between.

The Theology of Face, the Religion of Hands

Nothing about being here makes sense
to me.

I don’t practice theology
of face, the religion of hands.

My boundaries are grounded
in Pointillism. Exact and blurry.

The hallway pulls and pecks.
It bears so many bedrooms.

And a staircase:
my bald calls for more.

My shoes are a half-size too big.
As well my feet.

A perfect mismatch.
Last night I dreamt I was made

of fire. When I touched myself,
it was fucking hot.