LITMIR.BIZ

      I wanted resplendent queer sex.

      I pulled the hair from my head

      like a Greek lament.

      My head was a giddy gyre.

      No one could do anything about it.

      Out of the depths

      of the stanza tragedy,

      I cried for my body.

      Wanderers, servants, maids, slaves, baristas, singing

      with the dust cough, singing into the signing of books,

      caught in the middle of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch,

      Ivanka Trump’s blonde hair swishes in this gyre.

      We were banned through small administrative steps—

      Cookie woke up from her AIDS death, my colleague laughed,

      “the scene where Cookie is at the Catholic Church and pulls a rosary

      out of Divine’s ass,” things would need to get so bad

      before the uprising, I have to write poems for people

      so I can remember what this human thing is, but even

      then, the protests might not amount to anything.

      Louis, I drove around aimlessly to find you, the four

      days without my children crushed the sun and I meditated

      on one card (the Fool), read the warning from the university

      that said I couldn’t teach the books I was teaching,

      “The clitoris is too sexual,” and “Why did you bring your kids

      to the protest?” The police at the back

      of the gathering. “Move faster! The problems we’ve had with the police

      happen when people are outside the group.” Lacey says, “Move forward!”

      Regina in her orange vest, twenty-three years old, children

      chanting, one little girl on the shoulders of her dad,

      my kids’ small legs moving faster than the adults,

      everyone knows they kick the poets out first,

      climate change deniers, and Chris’s love in the pew,

      I remember you, what you said spoke to me, the idea

      of sanctuary, I am not religious, but I have been

      broken, Lord, I have been broken

      and, thus, am allowed to speak for the dead.

      Feel the pain that grows

      out like a nettle

      from injustice,

      and take that thorn

      out of your paw, little one,

      and keep walking north

      through the snow.

      Look at the people we have on our side:

      Walter Benjamin is on our side

      Hannah Arendt is on our side

      James Baldwin is on our side

      Sandra, they are all dead

      But they are on our side

      The other people,

      the capitalists, who do they have?

      They don’t have anyone

      All of their ideas are shit

      Listen, we have Brecht

      I was going crazy

      I picked up my phone

      I was talking to Maged

      Utopia Utopia

      Utopia Utopia

      Utopia Utopia

      Maged is moving from Seattle

      to Atlanta to be closer to his son

      I dream of the New Jerusalem of love,

      an Eden of sparks from the mouth of the rose cult

      The rooster of Midtown cockadoodledoos,

      crest shivers Floridian, last bit of cold

      in these parts; I am the bold-hearted one.

      Tallahassee on the “Dead Mall” Wiki page,

      stock market up, earth crash, crypto-mining

      the numeral seven like the delight of the godhead.

      I smoke and ask my neighbor what he would do

      if the government had him on a list of dissidents.

      Demon of the windstorm, demon of talons and beaks,

      I know you hear everything I sing, two children

      huddled together, under the moon,

      baby falling from a chariot of wildly shaped light.

      What do we make of him? Wander the earth

      in search of your brother. Brother, what would you do?

      And something stupid takes over him,

      “Well we are all on a list anyway,” as he backslides

      into his drunkenness, restoration of the neo-Nazi’s

      Twitter account and a 2:00 p.m. consciousness-raising

      session, I wish I was high instead of inside

      my body dragging itself to another action.

      First National Women’s Liberation meeting

      in Tallahassee, but now I’m drunk, high, and smoking

      a ton of cigarettes with my neighbor, the one

      who saved me from Hurricane Whatever’s 3:00 a.m. rainwater

      pouring through the wolf-eyed tree holes of the ceiling—

      then a MRSA infection on my elbow. No one knows

      why a hurricane reddens the night sky, no one knows why

      the ER doc says, “It’s the dirty water.

      It

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