To stay inside to attend to the more proximal inside. To feel the space of the marks. This is the shape of a poem in space, material ecology and architecture of language’s representation. This dyke’s rice rocket, decked out with an oversized rear view mirror, holding my face an overlay on the face of the one squeezed against me under the face of another sandwiched against me. A coupe slides across lanes rocking us back and forth across midtown, having left a dim room stretching the somatic sightlines be-tween femme knot and t-bird flock, a length of room littered with bodega roses and mixtapes of Ariel Rivera’s Christian love songs.
In the shape of the other is an asemic rendering. No such thing forming the legible axis. Ideological smogs of queer affect. Three Romantic teens and the orangest orange on the MARC. Low bun of straightened hair atop a navy field of white polka dots. I’ll read marks moving in any direction thinking about the energy of the clover. I know the ending, the twist, and watch the artist conversing with her dead mother in an ancestral home turned into a hotel no longer in the family’s except in memories. The hotel’s current staff doesn’t treat them particularly well, underscoring nostalgic displacements. Then the staff treats her tenderly once the conceit is dissolved and the projection falls away. Centrifugal force is a fictitious force.
Spend on schlepped linen, a living apple far from the site of its invention, all for modesty against the sun. Tyrannized and befuddled by objects, two bags and some pockets. I want to go freely of so many pouches of what-ifs and later-ons to stumble in the bardo, losing what must be lost
toothbrush
razor
poems printed for a reading gig
simmering burner
locked front door
parking without the parking brake
You’re supposed to be gone forty days out but you’ve asked to stay to play pranks.
