Gender

When I embrace I kick the fuckers wall
where I swirl more male than female,
without dependence on genitals, ― you are female and reach my mouth male. I desire
as well to be female inside of wrinkled bag.

I am perpetual discourse, like snow on summer fields where violet wheat
and a disproportionate sandy heaven
disturbed by inverted air becomes leaves.

Yes, I want to know sex
from both labia and man thing.

I want to hear pleasures chords,
pleasure raised up, struck down ―

Taken by a dark woman
and then soft I am not
in love with men. I do
not hear them in sleep.

My father lives the dirty
edge of alcohol streets;
he made me beaten
as red dragon rugs bend
wash-line in Sturgeon Bay

 

2.

I am male and love the whole ―
I am female in layers I am soft
and hard to experience how
she's alive running her legs
upon my shoulders and when
she floats to sex, I am human
and feel as if I have given
her my blood, my stealth
my mask inside poems
surrounded by make-shift lasso,―

I am pulled up, fingers tug reins
as dark persona, an unlikely ghoul
and I shift man in woman while
we watch the illusion as a prank
spelled by a defrocked Priest
Magician, he who is the lost King
rides out of the cave, drowns,
and we put it all back together,
like Humpty Dumpty, or the fairy
queen who has sex all night with
maids and gentry calling the blood
on her hands of course, delusion.

I am the ordinary spectacle, I
claim, angry. Translate gender
into sexual mime and beyond
chalk lines dawn in purple
chalk on the school yard driveway
where we are confused by rules
and play endlessly the game
without electricity making all
moves on an imaginary scheme,
as a laugh faked and trailed over
the half dead waves of ordinary
light and dismal day night cycles
that cannot be distinguished
from abstract calendar days.

I will leap forward to the edge.

From the throat we cry orgasm
and land upon last fertile
planet of tribal stars as we turn
everyway to escape the nebula
wiggling to make love as source
of goodbyes and hello are light,
a delicate instrument, pleasure
drives intimate gravity as we seize
the inner folds of legs and hollow
to aspirate sex, ―when I come
I was lost grateful for fabrics
she tore in wholesome tongue.

We are given speech in gender
but we am not silent when cut
into the other as objects outside
the realm of what we imagine
simply fall away from the space
ship as we rot in spiral shellfish
curls, and then mold in airless
space germs intact and cruel.

We pass from X to Zebra. Known
we are not easily classified. There
is no gender, no death when we
flower spores and the perfume
that remains has no name to market.

Of course, no prediction is true. It is,
and then we find the lies,
cut them from Eve's core and pretend
Adam doesn't notice he was dead.