Joan Tate
Hyperreality
Fag State
Nostalgic for men’s room prophecies
I bid 25 on a polaroid of Wojnarowicz’ ghost
Dickinson’s nephew tugged on my hair
In the maid’s room
Something stirred up to meet me
It was oblong like a lozenge
Like heavenly bodies
So often are
The word body has oversaturated
Our supersaturated English
Set us over the edge
Like begging
Benny litters sound in my mouth
There’s some blood there now
He gives me his period
He forgets how to moan
The ear knows things
The skin can only dream of
I raise my bid to 35
When you die you do not become a ghost
You become an inaccurate sound
Extroverts repeat themselves to the rooms
I celebrate my twink death by railing a twink
A tradition dating back to Socrates
Butch birth and baseball caps
My ecstasy plug wears a care bear hat
He seems stressed
He seems horny, but not here
We do poppers at the bar
RFK Jr says that these cause AIDS
I think my plug wants to fuck me
Even though he is gay, or because he is gay
The gay science evades all logic
The first woman I loved
Is a gay man again
It feels right
He is sober, thin
As he always was
And hung as I remember
An accurate ghost suit
Some part of me envies the closeness
The lost generation lingering
Deny my death wish
Feel no shame
There is never anything to say
Someone else gets the polaroid
I feel pregnant
Argento on on the couch
I think it’s Opera
The politics of lesbians are still fucking boring
I think
I tap myself on the shoulder
Hello?
How I feel about new england
Like a scarf of boiling water
A shot glass full of mayfly larvae
Dancing in the puddle
Soon to die
And the light is what it is
That took them
Thick like a mist of incredible leaves
Red like a mist of moons
Blue like asters
Flicking their bare selves open
Deep into November
Like a song you can’t find anywhere
Cause your mother only got the guts to sing it once
Once you packed your shit and left