The New Fuck You Adventures in Lesbian Reading

1.

In the kitchen Sunday morning,

her hand on your shoulder. That’s all

you need.

…and that's the way I like it

like it better than weekends alone

and clothes on no microphone

and letters to all the people I know

and magic marker

big one

to write my name and keep track of the days

and new things

like the coffee like the arrangement of shelves on my window

like nothing ever answered but myself and I'm making

food and fun out of the tasks I have

Of small cages and small toys. Celebrated Christmas with me under the tree. Said to me in a small voice "This is love and it's permanently attatched." I wrapped small toys and put them under. I used to bring balony sandwhiches, one for me one for him. The man in the deli even vaguely resembled Sam the Cat. Sam moved with me and we did small performan ces together. We danced. I used to watch him while he ate. He could talk. Oh Sammy be with me now when my courage wanes and still remains fixed. Be with me now on the wheel where we all begin and become. Be with me in cheesy laughter while I lose my mind. You're gone. Oh Sam remember California, Burbank, where you sat in your small cage for more than 24 hours, soundless while I hoped for a better life. And how I lost you, lost it, my mind IS me an na terrific hce I live a Rgetting te ad today I d it won ad that's th eit better d dothes letters t and everything, and silently turned you loose.

I should mention that I'm sick.

What's the point here?

I can't give up

enough.

I read David Wojnarowicz

as he rages against AIDS.

against the "killing machine

called America." I envy

his mythical voice.

My tongue

won't wrap around that word "America.

Is it because I'm from Kentucky?

It meant something, once

2.

I alternate

between repressing

and indulging.

When I was a child

I wanted to be an alcoholic.

I longed for some vice, some thing

I could throw myself into

and then be saved from.

Their love might work, and it might not, but theyre so beautiful as I imagine them. Neither of them say anything. Bob rests his head on his boy's white ass, it's white as the moon, and just for a moment, all the stories in Bob's sky are put to shame.

June dreams the dying elms wave and walk under a blue sky

The sun is planted in dirt so the soil trembles with light

It’s Spring.

The lake opens like a purse and dead fish

spill out onto the beaches.

The west side burns. There’s a shooting

then a big storm.