sparrows void sneaker hollows
thrown over a telephone line
with nests. at dusk
we are little, crowded
in a backseat, dirt-funky and
playing the quiet
game. we break when we spy
mcdonald’s, glow singing us singing
back as a lady in front wavers high
high high: it’s always apocalypsing.
apocalypse: riddled earth body tilts
as it sprouts us, in this
home-land a homeland to us
our america, an
unpracticed parent
unparalleled lover
(later: her body as mine,
shock of a love: discovering there was this growing thing in us both)
like: the burning of a body when it is touched
like: the burning of a home when it is touched
exhibit a: the land which can be done upon and to
exhibit b: a series of encounters with desire
exhibit c: language
tell me how many words
do you come from?
a love song to a place
a place that is queer
a love song to a place of queerness
a love song to queers
a love song to queers I love
I speak in unfamiliar languages
none mine
ausente como
are we imaginable?
what do
our
these
children imagine?
The summer I dreamt a pony at the door
and I woke up
my small awed hands poking
in the dusk light squared
above and so eagerly
wishing for the being I dreamed.
I check, breathless,
all ripe want. For me. Also for us.
No pony:
what’s a pony to a girlchild in the projects?
a regurgitated dream?
a fever dream of your best girl self?
beautiful, hot, to the touch,
unoriginal? can you
be good enough for one
to appear for you– first you, then
the dream of the queer animal you are
afraid to be, such good,
good girls both?
I say to Bronx burned —
what I am sure of is
we ate its earth as children: a transfer of desiring.
silky-threaded little bodies plus
burned land’s milky sustaining
coding and becoming in us
a redressed burning– a desire in it as us
to be ever more and more embodied,
redolent. a burned earth resituated
and made new again in our
little new bodies, a
queer love song:
different america built itself inside of us, a botanical
no america, inverse that survived, made new
america home land.
If a child consumes dirt, what new does the child become?
Children of the americas eat earth because they are hungry:
farce of scarcity. Different kinds of hunger. Our knowledges
are also loosely archived, tightly archived, hidden away,
oh america a fever
dream edging delight an archive of grief thickly
renders us
we remember ourselves
vaguely,
as if we and not this are/is the dream of america.
