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My friend Andryusha has been visiting from Michigan this week, and last night to ride out a crazy rain storm we layed about in my living room reading Eileen Myles poems together. As the rain began to pass and I sank deeper into the seedy gay world of the poet, I had this sort of trancendant feeling of catharsis, which made me see clearly a lot of differnt thoughts that’ve been swirling around in my head lately. Today in honor of that feeling, I tried to write a poem in the style of Eileen Myles:

On Moving On

A flair
An affair
I wear my hair back
when it rains and heat breaks
and I wonder if there’s a difference
between you and the you I want,
between what I used to want
and what I want now.

A hunt
An affront
I account for all my variance.
I feel more suited to my present
than I ever was before,
that’s why I’m able to write poems
even when it rains and I haven’t
brought anything to protect me.

A sound
A compound
I’ve found communion with an interlude:
Pirates parading around my bedroom
in braziers, taunting me
saying swim princess swim
or at least learn to count to one hundred
before you begin to wrap yourself in leather.

An aisle
In vinyl
The Dies Irae will be my wedding march
and you will all be funeral singers,
or pirates playing pretend:
Real women one might call “sir”,
cause no one’s ever heard of a woman playing guitar,
only men who call themselves “women”.

Confusion
Follows intrusion
I think I could be a woman for you
and you assume it will make you a man.
When I go to Singers
all the hall of fame fags
for whom gold star might as well mean
abstinent
seem to view me more as
a topiary than as a statue,
and I realize its the same stare
they’ve always given me, so I suppose
I’ve always been a woman for them.

An array
A display
In opting out of on-demand sex,
I hope to cash in on on-demand sexing:
a fools errand for a fag
who only shows up to parties
wearing floor length skirts in hopes that
this is real life, and wanting
attention from no one.

A farce
There is something in that moment
of being both small and naive,
where in medias res becomes deus ex
not a machine, but more like a spark,
which I fear will have me chained to a rock
if I share it with the world,
and so I will wait to be devoured by the masses.
Instead, I chain myself to you
and commit autocannibalism
in hopes that ignorance is truly bliss,
as opposed to the transcendence of disaster.
On a park bench or rooftop
or dancefloor or fruit stand,
there are things we do not know
which we may chose to ignore, but
we cannot ignore those things which
we choose to not know.