///1///
I wouldn’t deserve sexual pleasure. Occasionally I’m totally naked — man-boobs, tiny cock and consequence. It’s not to say that I couldn’t peer out over his face, pretending to be him. Spooking him, I make my sex through his presence.
My muscles are made out of air and silicone. I find myself always at the edge, willing myself. The closer I can see his death, the more I worry about how he goes into the moment.
I’ll write a woman. Crush himself into a thousand hearts in the form of her. My dick isn’t real anyhow, so I’m absolutely stone. He seems lost in my body. It doesn’t matter; I can’t betray myself. Breathe against him (I can’t).
I’ve encountered him before — he gets the details enough to say “my body.” He keeps going, far higher than I wanted to go. I feel nothing, just look at the shape of thin air. He wants to know: Do you understand the fiction between poetry, experience and the self? The closer I relate, the more poetry becomes a distant shadow, a deeper closet.
\\\2\\\
He’s curious about his side and how it is that it feels these feelings. He’s not touching, just looking at his insides, releasing the currents. He worries about his knee and the heat radiating from his restraints. He constructs a hard shell around himself, telling himself he is irresponsible; impossible.
My body becomes an object of his experience. His hips dive into my throat. I feel endangered by his sex on my face. I am pretending to be flat chested, wondering how it is that he intrudes, so strongly that I can remember enough to trace out my story. What I will think in order to fly!
When we sit close, I remember I’ve never felt anything contacting my body. Sometimes I am just curious about your breath, your shoulder, your height, and how you live in your own skin. But it wouldn’t be right to look at you as an object. I won’t push you. Fuck me. Try.
I’ll just snuggle up in thousands of clouds. I’ll remember the sweet smell of heat that radiates from your head when you are sleepy. When its unrequited, you don’t have to fly. Just sit close, desire coursing through your arms. I’ll become a small ball resting on your sleeve, peering out at the moment. And when I fall asleep, you can touch my throat.
\\\3\\\
Just when I was resting my arms, you ask “what happened to flying? To the sweetness of riding the warm air?” I turn my back toward you, as if you are holding me. I can feel the man in my desire and he’s beautiful.
But I have to watch my back. If anyone learned how I want, even if they haven’t, they would want to know, “what are you seeing?” and “how can you be sure? Can you even see?” And my desire would do whatever it needs to do in order to pretend. I’ll move. I’ll let go of that. Anything for you to relax into your ability to know I’m yours.
Perhaps it’s all projection and it only makes sense in the moment. If I let myself, I’ll go absolutely mute. When you ask if I’m ready, I close my chest or light it quickly into his. I told you already, that is irresponsible and impossible.
I was resting my heart on the right to be heard. I fear that sensation because a poem, for me turns feeling into numbness. I said today, on edge barely breathing…
“…”
I remind him that I was resting so he bolts awake.
///4///
The more risk the more beauty. But I want to fly. Even when we are sleepy. Still I’ve never felt something like this. Still scared, absolutely mute. Take off your face and pretend you are ready. We will talk about rising. How I feel him be. Wouldn’t it be amazing, would it? Traveling up to blend with him. What I want is beautiful.
But what my body would betray. I look over my shoulder. Our shirts over our faces covered in sweat. You will read my sex as nothing in something. What I want is possible, not straight. I fly over the canyon. You say try. I want or don’t know what I said today, “what would I do?”
transpoetics 