Status Updates From The Performance of Becoming...

I dreamwrite that each tongue in my mouth is a member of the proletariat
and they are destroying themselves with their horrible licks The best
dictators don’t kill their subjects rather they make their subjects kill each
other I have never fired anyone, says the owner of the plantation Instead, I
have always managed to make the undesirables leave on their own volition

How can it be that there are people who know nothing of the blows of life
My love is a fragile animal scraping against a whiff of vapor, eating away at
the last membrane in your voice at the crystals shooting out of your face
My love collects invisible stones that are pinholes that are excavated
territories on a beach on a land that belongs to none of the countries of thirst in your desiccated skin

Did you hear the one about the tongue
that couldn’t stop licking everything it saw It belonged to a unitedstatesian
worker whose face was reduced when his union job at the Hyatt Hotel
disappeared in the dying days of the rotten carcass economy This poem is
dedicated to that tongue
It’s hungry

I was part of a team of explorers we were searching for our own
bodies In the desert I found my feet and I put them in a plastic bag and
photographed them, cataloged them, weighed and measured them and when I was finished with the bureaucratization of my remains I lay down in the sand and asked one of my colleagues to jam a knife into my belly She
obliged