on faggotness
it’s been a while since. the last time a body was inside my body. summer. & now i think how lonely i am. standing next to the oven for heat. so much depends on sex. once you have had it and had it well. only the little ruins that follow. i am no stranger to ruin. many a man ruined me for both our pleasure. recent history calls a faggot. what the Greeks called Greek. what our oldest ancestors needed no language for. faggot at the moment. i’m always having this conversation with Sam & Cam & Hieu. my closest faggot friends. what makes a fag a fag. one theory that remains true for us. it’s not necessarily about the sex. being filled. but about emptiness. void you didn’t know was a void. until someone stopped it up. a particular strangeness. i was a faggot in 1st grade. full of so little. one day, in the car, heading somewhere, probably the park, my friend Alex asked my mom where my father was. never occurred to me that i didn’t have a father. when my friend Ben came over to play, all i had was barbies. & he asked whose they were. my cousin’s(?). my girl cousin’s. i hadn’t a cousin to speak of. i knew to hide the void. void i was a more boyish thing should occupy. plenty straight man faggots too. nothing to do with what a body wants another body to do to it. everything to do with how we speak of the miles & miles of grey we know is in us. pulsing grey. hungry to be filled with a landscape.
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i try not to see myself in the broken humidifier. nor in the molded potato. the freezer burned chuck roast. i think too often of the old women who come to the gym in corduroys. what roads have led them to treadmills? i want to say. they are faggots. i want to claim their strangeness. particular it is. their well ironed gym clothes. the women, some in t-shirts, most in sweaters. shiny foreheads & creased pants. cycling through the body. stopping for water. stopping to chat with Barb. fearing the knees. working the shoulders. stopping to pee. braving the knees. begging their machine to master the machines. bad joints & all. i love them. my corduroy coven. little nana faggots. i see it in them. they know time. is not a river. not quite. like a lover. but a thing that leaves you. until it’s gone. that ends you when. emptied. tell me that. don’t. sound gay?
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a particular walk. particular wrist. particular speech. particular clothes. particular piercings. particular knowledge. particular was of eating particular things. particular sounds. particular motions. particular eyes. particular beliefs. particular freedoms. particular joy. particular behaviors. particular punishments. particular lonely. particular grief.
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sitting on the ledge of the tub holding down the lever so the water will drain. watching a bit of black (cotton? hair? poop?) slowly float towards the soft whirl mouthed pipe & think. if the black bit was human sized it would be a great deal fast. flying. driving. being in the river when the river suddenly takes off. that’s kinda how i came out. half tipsy & sixteen. summer drunk. last day of camp. mama pick me up. grandma in backseat. ride home. she ask. how was it? i say. great. She ask. what happened? i say. a boy came out & no one made a big deal. she ask. how that make you feel? i say. good, cause i’m bi. summer drunk. dumb tongued. wasted pilot. whoa whoa whoa whoa. sweet jesus. fragrant foul. mayday mayday. house turned ash due to sleep cigarette. accidental fag. standing in a puddle, it suddenly became the Mississippi. i moved across a great distance at a starling speed. a big deal was made.
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i’m disagreeing with how i began. with the sex thing. my faggotness has nothing to do with anyone else. nor their body. though once i made a list of the things i’ve let men do to me. you should have seen it. if i stand in forest no one’s around to see it, I’m still a fag. a black one. a poz one. a son one. a not a boy boy one. whatever. let that not be not said. the body intersects itself. into dust. i wonder how much. i’ll trouble identity until i die. race & pronouns & politics & then mush. we all turn to must. or ash. whatever your family decides to do with you. i don’t know how. much i have to give to identity today. i don’t know if i’m allowed to say that. writing the things i write. believing the things i believe. today, i’m barely a thing. my body is protesting & doesn’t care what i call it.
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faggot in some language. ours. means different. any boy shaped child who behaves a way. someone else’s tenderness. revolted toward the child. the first time i remember. being called that kind of boy. my mother’s room. my mother’s mirror. my mother’s dress. spinning. of course. singing some little song. & my mother was smiling. & my grandpa said. that boy gonna be a faggot. & i didn’t know what it meant. but it had to be. akin to king. or mighty. or beautiful. different. the good kind. but when i looked in his eyes. & saw my body upside down. i knew?
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