The Apparatus of Love
So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty
How did the moon get inside the living room? There was barely enough room for our bodies
When I rub your hands over the surface, the cave carvings in France feel
Like her necklace, chipped white shell, but how would she suck me?
The carvings, I’ve never seen them, but I know they’re there
Tell me a lie, chula. No, darling, not that one
There’s no see that can hold me
You know that I’d do anything for you
The carvings, I’ve never seen them, but I know they’re there
I used her telescope. It was tight and tiny
So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty
And teeming with her breath
Tell me a lie, chula. No, darling, not that one
You can’t keep trying to save everyone
But that’s how you love best
I will not be kissing any woman behind
A Blue Jay! I’m done taking care of women
Who don’t belong to me
Portrait as a Deer Hunter
And the paper makes you think this is your land
Like when I lived in Malibu—the grain surf glow
Made me think nothing was wrong, that everyone drove iridescent Lamborghinis
I’ve never been to Malibu. Today is more like summer in South Gate or
Bed Stuy. A street confettis children in cornrows and trenzas, fades and bowl cuts
They use umbrellas to shield themselves from the murder of first grade
First grade lined with meth-news.
Don’t be distracted by Supreme Court decisions
If I left my lover for the girl who smells like river rocks, within two
Hours, the batteries would run out on our rabbit-tipped vibrators
I don’t want to sit next to her on a plane, the earth leaving below, or describe to her
How blackness is not a thing, it’s nothing and therefore everything, and I’ll blow her mind
While she bites a churro. I don’t want to show her my mail-order unicorn collection
Or pick epazote leaves for quesadillas I would warm, blowing until the cheese cooled, the anchos
In the freezer, that strap-on in the closet—a typhoon
You really tried to get your boyfriend to let you have girlfriends, didn’t you?
Jacobo Zabludovsky, pry my eyes from her perfect perfect middle finger
No matter. The state won’t stop shooting, it loves against protection
The next time you lust for a doctor, show more chichi sooner
Show up to her house with a basket of alfajores, cookies on a string, though she’s already
Forgotten your last name. Did she even know how to spell your first?
Today is not the day to forget that Marsha Johnson and Sylvia Rivera
Hurled the first fists at Stonewall, that they’d been punching everything
That they’re still clawing at the sodomy of equal rights
Malcolm, remind us that we are coming home, to ignite
And, yes I will take that girl behind a Blue Jay and kiss her like I’m dying!
The time is high and I’m moving on. I’m going to be your number one
Be my woman on the bracket. Save days like halves of the hand
Let’s walk into the beautiful garage
Take me out back and show me how to shoot
Be the deer I’ve always wanted
Servicios Pleyboy
It isn’t natural, love that’s not seed
Don’t play a funeral polka and expect me not to cry
The first ten notes were lemon in my mouth sores
Lemon on my finger-cut heart-slice
Did you love him?
Yeah, fool, I did.
Yes
He punched the steering wheel—the palm of it—like he’d practiced
on someone before
This because he couldn’t find our parking ticket
Ey, fool, he’s got a bad temper. You better dump him.
Yeah, dude, I better.
And was it the onions? No. It was the drone
A dead line because he didn’t always have a cell
And did I love he was mostly phantom to chase what sweet
Remember—the gold high heels, my ass switching, back and forth, back
No AA meeting could patch his drywall holes
No AA meeting could make him stop molesting memory
It was the corn that made us cry, a modified sorrow
It’s not natural, a kernel that won’t grow
I cried into my taco again today at El Farolito
Leading me away from that dick at constant attention
The jig was up
Born on yellow hills, my pleyboy was a hard climb. A home to mispronounce
Fuck that, said my brother. There’s more people to love.
Was it the churros? No. It was the tofu as a meat option
I cried into my taco and my sailor hat almost fell off
Everybody else cried too
The cashier acting like he was wiping his nose
The taqueros let their salt steam
Was it the chile verde? No. It was that pleyboy
with sweat pants under his jeans—recovering
from a lifetime of being left alone in lettuce fields
I left him too and what I got left was al pastor
Fool, did you get my text?
Nah, ey, my shit is broken.
What made me cry was the way he rubbed his nose and lips across my back
And that I wasn’t supposed to fuck him
How long can you live in the dark before you get caught?
I cried into my taco because the red tile was rain boot dirty
No matter how hard they scrub
Everyone had to come to San Francisco escaping rape
and bullets in the mouth
And that’s why everyone cried, not because of me
Even my brother looked away, out at the street
Families dodging pock-marked addicts with no pants
The oranges piled neatly in pyramids
The bus dangling on driving electricity
Everyone dodging something, even the gabachos
They were just there for lunch, but when we cry, it’s contagious
And when one of us dies, they know
They’re next
Don’t be sad, ey, said my brother. You’ll find another fool to love.
Out of the Wreck
For Adrienne Rich
Straight down— A river
Freeway
Let me pass
I walked out and back
to the lip of the road
And when I come into the room
They will love my accent
Ask for my papers
Watch the lights
I turn the city— like a woman—
like a man, turn—
what can I say
I’m androgyne new
My written room has street walk sight, sharpens
avenues, under caves, mercy flowers anger
I remind them That they failed my living
They’re dead— my verbs survive
Language my name— the light straight down— I’ve looked before My name is light straight mercy— my name, my resist My written room ignites— the city —sharply mist
If they ask, my name is under the lids of
rivers, cities , and your dead .