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Month: February, 2015

The day my life changed from being out of options into poet ions.

I cannot pay my rent on time, this time.

.                                                                   [Linear time is a social construct]

.                                                                   [There is no gold backing the U.S. Dollar]

.

Primarily, because I was sick for two weeks.

Primarily, because I get paid hourly.

Primarily, because I am considered unworthy of sick days.

Primarily, because I exchange my health for various amounts an hour.

Primarily, because I was born poor.

.

Not because I am bad at bootstraps.  I pulled and stretched those things past my 5’4”—

until I understood.  I celebrated earning my Master’s degree barefoot.

.

What are you going to do with a terminal degree in writing anyway?

.

I don’t know if you know what an ion is.  They are incredibly queer.

And they are quite beautiful.  And whole.

.

People usually refer to them as unbalanced.  They are either negatively or positively charged–

due to loss, or gain.

.

I think they seek community for balance.

.

Option 1:

Understand science as separate from magic.  Get paid to study beings.

.

What is the difference between observation and studying?

.

I have a hypothesis:

Autocorrect is actually trying to queer our communication.

Autocorrect is trying to wake us the fuck up.

.

Don’t stop noticing when someone alters your words.

.

I don’t know if you know what a poet is.  They are incredibly queer.

And they are quite beautiful.  And searching for whole.

.

People usually refer to them as unbalanced.  They are either negatively or positively charged—

due to loss.  Or love.

.

I think they offer words for the balance the community seeks.

.

Option 2:

Get paid for writing.

.

What is the cost of living?

.

I have words:

The space between being born and being dead is for being alive.

If you’re struggling to meet social expectations, it’s probably because they’re unnatural.

.

I don’t know what a poet ion is.  I am still becoming.

I hope they are incredibly queer.

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Good Morning

Whenever someone audibly says “good morning” to me in public, I get the feeling of being in church.  And I say “good morning” back in the strangest of voices.

.

It feels formally spiritual, randomly intimate.

.

I think we did not say “good morning” to each other where I came from.  I think mornings were not good.  Just a continuation of the sore body work day before.  And weekends the space of second and third jobs.

.

A man sleeping and eating at one of the United States’ many homeless shelters said to me on Thursday: “Your hands are too soft for someone who works 3 jobs.”  And then we played an intense game of Scrabble with another man who sleeps and eats there.  College students made us bad grilled cheese and tomato soup.  We laughed and hoped they were not studying to be culinary artists.  I was thankful for the bad food, too.  My soft hands a marker of my educational, but not class privilege.

.

Later, over the board of letter possibilities, which became increasingly limited and increasingly expanded, as our moves were interconnected, we played sounds we had learned as children in place of words.  We challenged each other with a copyrighted authority in the form of a Scrabble dictionary published in 1996.  And we offered the insults we learned in place of love, too.  We laughed.  We slid and slapped our hands together and here, the contrast of my white privilege met my soft, educated hands. We left fingerprints of food pantry pistachio dust on each other’s skin.  A treat.  Because I could go in the kitchen and bring out whatever I wanted to.

.

I wanted to lose that game, but respect and competition had me playing to win.  Or maybe it was my lack of gender privilege and the echo of questionable demands of my sex, of me.

Respected and sexualized me?

.

I came in second place.

.

They went to bed on the floor.

.

I went home to where I have a bed, but chose not to sleep in it.

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And much too early, we all got up and went back to work.

Today, I brought a mango.

Yesterday I bit into a peach that tasted like nothing.

.

But the spirals of fall colors on her skin were stunning, especially in the deep parts of winter.

.

I do not eat for the taste of nothing.

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So, I took a few more bites, tasting with intention.  Nothing.  Another, nothing.

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I am terrified of what it means to chew on the taste of nothing while I am falling in love.

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I don’t know if it was the peach or my taste buds, but I threw out the peach and kept the taste buds.

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It is not my work to make the peach taste good to me.  I want to overwhelm my taste buds.

.

And I think of these things:

1. The time a pre-lover woman left a peach, a gift of nourishment and implications, in my backpack.  I did not discover the gift until it had already begun rotting.  It smeared its rotten, sticky parts on my poetry.  Remain(s).

2. In an elementary talent show, we danced to Peaches by The Presidents of The United States of America.  I gave my mother the task of buying us peaches to bite into during the show.  She accidentally bought nectaries.  The body of the audience responded to our sour reactions, upon biting, with laughter.  Here, I wonder what we went without for those sour peaches that we bit and then threw away.  Food as prop.  Here I know that we never had peaches at home.  Was my mother as embarrassed at her unknowing as I was?   The taste of sour is not nothing.

3. What does it mean to eat fruit out of season?

4. What does it mean to eat fruit that could never grow where you are growing?

Today, I brought a mango.

Love Lies Here

All you ever wanted was my happiness.

.

You showered me with the impossibility of

joy—in the form of gifts.

.

So many lovely gifts

that I could not afford

.

to accept,

happiness

requires

truth.

.

And here,

now that I am

setting the foundations,

settling into

happy–

.

It is truth:

.

You only wanted my happiness,

if it was a gift from you.