by Lucas de Lima
My Body Is Not An Alleyway
Voluptuous middle of the street.
I learned to ejaculate in between my sleeping brother & mother. On the floor because the furniture hadn’t arrived.
Lighting ants with matches. Sticking my beak into someone’s slick armpit.
I folded my own clothes & cried over cursive x’s.
“Only Jesus is perfect.”
Like a nest.
Canada geese go back to the sky if you command them. In the Brazilian farm they command you.
The blank stare at blackboards. Because thick necks entrance.
That was the stepping stone of bisexuality: as lunar as acne.
In the seconds during puncture, pimples were sublime.
What would it be like, now, to desire myself then? To masturbate thinking of a scrawny boy in a striped t-shirt?
Never mind. Fuck flighty bodies.
Black birds don’t disappear. Take the toucan, its co-optation into family & spectacle through breakfast.
A fate the crows rejected. In The Birds, killing children. Kissing Tippi on the cheek.
I know I made my best friend grieve. I just couldn’t fuck her.
So she fucked me over by choosing water over air. Drowning herself in the virility of alligators.
I think my mother cawed sometimes. The sound made me rustle in the leaves.
The clothesline trembled.
I would’ve raised children with my best friend had she not died. Foil & yarn would not distract.
Hydrangea in the garden. Against red cheeks. Will Hydrangea still become my drag name?
Tengo calor. Tengo pluma. Thigh, along with Lorca, will be the names of new birds.
Bare to the sky.
Even though I made out faces, blending family & friends, the community turned ugly.
Sky filled with nightmarish waves.
The sign always says No Barebacking Allowed. To disobey is to cradle a feral cat in one’s arms.
I think I want plumage more than lineage.
Don’t want to be leftover meat.
Chase After Swallows & Get Into Crevices
Melodrama’s my way of manipulating the sky. Everything bulges.
Look at my body.
“I just get high. I giggle & dream.”
Though I’d speculated about HIV. If its wingspan had reached you.
Not as risky as black birds, bald eagles we are. Rural smudges of white.
Airplane engines make it seductive to get sucked. Don’t worry about my diet of mice & men.
Birds of prey, killing in flight, have special spatiotemporal reach.
You speak of it wistfully. You wish to compel the buzzards in our orbit: “Here. My gift to you. A chinchilla as young as I am.”
Constellations of friends at night weren’t there to warn me.
I can’t handle stories like that—the linear path toward death. I fly diagonally, loving the layovers in visual art.
Unseen from above, borders marked my body.
No one showed up to document talons locking, our whirling in mid-air. It’s a mystery how gay eagles suspend ideology.
Spiraling. Raw over Mexico.
The wound of a raven’s beak is the focal point of your arm.
We burst through the image.
I wanted to share it. The wet horizon, pierced like a rabbit. Soaring & dropping, I thought with your wings.
About the “blood-filled egg” (Wojnarowicz).
the mountain goat gallops he runs somehow over mountains & hills afraid of that legendary eagle on youtube who lifted a goat right from the top with talons & carried it off into the sky before releasing the flailing mammal. So the goat would die & feel what it’s like to descend
you go down go down on someone or something you can’t really breathe the redness of a rim job
then line break.
I saw this kid yesterday on gaytube this cute brown boy he would ram older guys’ faces into his ass get it filmed some of them wearing masks so you couldn’t see them but the young guy sure loved showing his face.
I guess the trade-off for getting so much tongue down there was they got to fuck him bareback. I watched this & it turned me on I didn’t think or feel bad about it really I got over it
machomx commented: superyoung and fucking bearback.....
& bj1021 wrote: wasn't hot @ all
I felt the pressure release right there while masturbating. DA powell said that over lunch “pressure release valve,” I got the analogy from him but we weren’t talking about gay stuff yet, we were talking about what certain lines do
We did discuss my best friend who was killed by an alligator in florida. I didn’t tell him about the alligator attack he wanted me to use her name in my poems. Ana maria was great because I could actually talk to her about beastiality, “we circled each other & rammed horns” I could say.
but then sometimes she was the mountain goat sometimes I was the eagle, or think I was, or tried to be
Still Life Friends
Flipping pages back & forth, I take the stage. Scrambling because you seem owlish up high.
DROP THE EGG.
Cracks on my ceiling, Ana Maria. Body invited by the alligator.
I wasn’t invited to kill him.
Although he killed you.
The audience applauds when I shove my fist in a glass. Paper flaps everywhere, cutting through breath.
There’s nothing else here.
Ana Maria, fly back.
Ana Maria is the Breathing of Distant Prey:
the acoustics of capture.
“You’re so deep.”
A porpoise flung skyward now sings under water.
A poem about the dead leans in for a bite.
Pupils, like filmstrips, suppress globular tears.
She travels in groups of 2-111. Multiplies herself &
Ana x Maria =
zig-zag for your life.
The males, like lions, leave the hunting to females
& then join in for the lyrical kill.
Come, SeaWorld trainer.
Fuck this finely tuned sonar receptor (not Ana Maria).
I’m bringing a seal pup to shore, I’m wrapping him up in
an older skinny guy who did not cry out his status on the Internet yet
burst my spotted hide,
I thought I might be poz. My blurry cheetah body
Had avoided David Wojnarowicz’s living corpse but
instead of getting tested
I ran to his scars flooding the city like watering holes.
My sentences sputtered through David a sunny day an empty street
a finish line.
The silence of retracted claws.
We focused on each other’s rosettes to
intensify the experience of sprinting.
Panting David asked what will you do now. Someone turned his cheetah body
inside out during the race
fur inside sinewy flesh jittery bones.
No black "tear marks" running from the corner of his eyes down the sides of
his nose to his mouth
no marks to keep sunlight out of his eyes.
I told David
I’ll cry out light for you.
After the painter himself drowns during an attack,
I go on Ricky Lake.
“I keep falling in love with dead artists! They’re all over my face!”
In bodies of water, bodies pool together.
Paul Thek’s thirst soaks his retrospective
for babies like me.
Once a dreamboat, now a merman, Paul wraps
his tail around my penis.
His pink paint in a black puddle means
I don’t have to jump in.
tentacles gift-wrap the man because
an octopus spots him
My brother pecks at me. I have a broken wing. I tell him I’m writing a book but he continues to warble, worms in his beak. Sick. He’s going to puke slithery brown bits once the sun blazes.
Robin, tired of the Batcave, rises in my dreams, cock swelling by the minute until it jabs the earth, turning over stones & gobbling potato bugs, I’m not a little boy we scream, prancing together side-by-side in the backyard, I’m just your little bitch.
My other brother lived with me. We scuffled & gave each other wounds. Pointy feet grazed tender bellies. Feather-strewn pillows, our surface continuous. I exploded on the bed after he’d swooped down. “I don’t like my life.”
Robin is orange against the ground. Still learning to flash. During lunchtime, he hides in the bathroom stall, shedding his cape. His song is inside. Uncircumcised.
I welcome Ana Maria who careens from up high, breasts twice the size of when she was alive.
Another dropping? Well, she wanted legs wet. Shit, like all dead things, lubricates movement. Is shit dead?
My grandmother lifted a live chicken off the stove with her bare hands. I was 9. My grandfather rode horses, caged canaries, cheated on her, left his family burning, jaguars at night. At least he cries when canaries die.
I fantasize about eating pigeons. Dumb, bulbous, iridescent throats want to get
The incubation period is no sex, just eggs, poached, scrambled, sunny side-up, fried, boiled/ burst, all over your cleavage, you are suddenly obese, I have never read a poem about being obese/all this shit about the body & so little about fat I guess because birds don’t get fat unless they’re engorged on the farm/egg-bound, an egg broken inside just prior to being laid, the shell hard & brittle inside the hen, she doesn’t do anything/has trouble walking & breathing.
I fed tiny abandoned sparrows lettuce. Then I left them alone because their parents were supposed to rescue them. The way chickens are supposed to peck at & eat scorpions when humans go hide. How I still wonder, do you carry a baby bird on your back.