wake up, rod

Let me own a bit longer until I feel the stump of a pipe, an organ to mouth over, any segment will do, will fill until it no longer wants to fill. I aim to own your fingertip, your eyelash. This segment of our brief sleep until you take away your mouth and make a miserly smoked pipe. Far easier to tell under a pipe, a reason or consequence to fill. Kindly smoke my mouth, press to me like you own. Push against push until I can pull the segment of our magnet, segment my eye with a dip of a pipe or nick of a blade until I learn what it means to fill my own mouth. A quick mouth over, a talk segment we can pocket and own. Christ, pass the pipe I want nothing but fill to stuff me up until I don't know when's until. But that's fine, you have my mouth, I've got nothing to fill, nothing to leave but this segment this cause for wind pipe overhaul. To form my own fancy story. This is just cave to fill until I own the cling of your mouth, the undeniable segment, a sweet pipe-drea...

I wanted to write something that dealt with the construction of gendered identities, so I did. It works within a specifically heterosexual lens, which is intentional. Yet, it's not totally critique. There's a kind of mesermizing aspect to the dance of gender: a formulaic, unsympathetic samba toward something monstruous, elegant and artificial. -B. Table of Context i. mater every woman must own a little black dress, must wear it’s simple shape with complexity, learn it’s secret: that every woman is her own secret stuffed into a silhouette. every woman must own a little black dress, must remember where it’s curves meet, feign simplicity or at least the shape of it, learn where to make room for secrets in a silhouette. every woman must own a little black dress, must tuck away the shape of her dreams, learn how to hold herself simply, secret the complexities into the shape of a silhouette. ii. pater a man is an elegy of wood and stone. a man is not allowed. a man is an elegy of b...

This is super retarded, I know, but I can't figure out how to get my poem to publish with it's correct formatting to blogger. So i'm posting this picture, while I spend time trying to figure out what hoops I have to jump through. the form is a tetrahedral spiral, I just made up an impossible geometrical shape, I know, but that's what happens when Kate gives me an assignment like this. So, until I get it worked out (and I don't want to email it around, b/c that seems uber-lame), this is what I've got.

Kate!  I want to shake you with simultaneous frustration and giddiness.  This assignment was ridick.  Thanks for a good one.  I really do think I tried for the Olympics in this poem & it ended up over the top in a I'm-wearing-too-much-makeup-kind-of-way.  DNA + heredity + dance + silverfish + magnetism + repellence + well you get the idea.   heredities of silverfish i. fishing The dance was not simple rather felt with intention. The wonderbread like earthworms drooped limply on fish hooks. I really did catch fish like that planting differences out of the arms and reach, out of your neck ties lengthening the walls. ii. sticky Salsa is easier when produced from a distance.  A certain push frame repelling the arms it rests on. "You don't learn from touch,  just absence of touch." She showed me a current you can only ride in the chase away  or towards  the cultivated frame. iii. sliver but the halve has more work to do a further flair to coax; we align post to stars, ...