We recognize each other in a crowd,
with our forcefields of dark matter pulsing
inside hastily draped crime scene tape:
yellow and black
like the skins of dead hornets
warning you we’re poisonous.

We are the ones who can’t be touched.
Even the breeze is dangerous.
A hug, a touch on the hand
is a cellar door swung open,
a dirt floor to land on…


it occurs to me
(really late)
around that time when internet research decays
from topics of insolvency and fellowships
to tongue splitting, furries and Rasputin’s pickled cock
that I am really, really lonely
for you

and my brain,
radioactive and glowing,
has decided
(after all possible avenues for defilement
that Google and the human race have catalogued)…

Nine Days

for Anais Nin

You were every bit a child still, at thirty
when that afternoon in the hot mistral

you invited him in
and in
and in

until he tangled your conscience

with pheromones

and tender insistence,

drowning your homesickness

in his ocean of chromosomes

that gave life to your own
until he filled you up

and came out the other side…


…An umbilicus connects us.
Not a silver thread,
but a twisted life-stem
wrapping around us,
pulsing with our conjoined blood.

We’ve traveled so far
from the city of the ordinary.
I let you carry me
tucked in your pocket,
hidden inside your blueprints,
wrapped around your little finger.

I’m going to be your banyan tree
in the darkest forests
of your cerebral cortex…

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