On Faggotry and Dissaffection Pt.3

The bass thumps from the living room one room removed from the room I room in. I’m back on the floor. In a few days I will have sex with the first stranger since winter and his name will be Connor and it will be beautiful. And then the next night you will be bound and gagged by a couple who won’t kiss you and you will cry on the walk home and write in your pent up room. Jack Spicer notes in his letter to Joe which opens his collection of poems Admonitions, that “the obscene is not used (as is common) in these poems, for the sake of intensity, but rather as a kind of rhythm.” Similarly, everything’s about sex but sex. Is the rhythm of time you feel an in-and-out, drifting between present and absent Jamie? When sex punctuates your goings-on, sex becomes not about climax but about being there. About time. The slow teasing in required of your shut up ass.  of being conjoined. And then the thrusting, where you watch someone else rush to climax. Whether that someone else is the man you met that night or yourself is entirely variable. A movement in four parts. 

It is not as if I don’t remember where I say I go, rather, each time the lie flows of its own accord, my real intention bowing in submission to the imaginary. I have no need to present a justifiable explanation to my parents. I’m an adult, I drive and I drive well. I park and pay for gas I walk Rey up to bed when he needs. I come in quietly and don’t deserve Peter or the puppy, light sleepers liable to make themselves heard. I explain myself away. I’m going to Annie’s. I’m going to Georgia’s. Georgia’s feeling shitty again and wants me to give her her shot and probably just distract her. Louie’s not feeling well, Louie of course being Georgia’s dog and she leans so heavily on that dog. What would I do without Rey. 

Tonight, in May, is when I set up a pillow on the couch because I spilled Golden Monkey all over the sheets and blanket when I was drunk the night before. My body had hurt too much to wash the sheets until tonight. So I sleep on the couch I inherited from Lovette. Tonight, bass does not thump from the other room. Tonight there is a steady knock, in four parts emanating from the basement. I’m stressed, and getting over an allergic reaction to a cat this morning. I smoke a cigarette on my porch and out emerges a cat.  

What does it mean to you when we break out of time. Today I was talking to Christina, and I said yesterday I was unsure what to write waiting for the trolley. I pull pink cardstock out of my Hello Kitty bag. I press down the pencil I found among my things and make a single curve. It was a parenthesis, beginning this aside from my happenings. I transform it into an I. It was not that I had something to say. I have nothing to tell you. Rather, I was required to make a mark, to impress, to make a claim in this endless field of possibility. 

I want to exist as a concept. A thinly held shard. It’s perfect when you think it. But once it comes out of these noxious lips it warps and contorts. Many mangled limbs strewn about. Language stretched like tape, tugging at skin and wounds, doing nothing but binding together the corpse of your thinking. A body traversing time finds a rest is not a rest. This is entering into an enfolded dimension; we are pouring energy into this pocket and finding strange returns.

Jack Spicer writes that explanation is not against the “celestial mechanics of poetry,” rather, writing is “not afraid to dirty its hands with explication.” Writing is such a dirtiness. Writing is such a shame. This letter is not purely a form of introduction however, the letters recur throughout the poem, and in After Lorca as well. I penned one letter over and over. I repeat myself in full.

Joel CampoComment