It Will Not Be Heart Failure a Rrose Will Bloom In My Chest Smoke Rising From the Gun of Some Nazi Desperate to Make a World Without People Like Me In It and I Know He Will Fail Always We Will Live

1

Every night I sleep and visit death in small forms.
We kiss, a new Rrose blooms.
I do not fear this.
Are you afraid that time before you were born?
I am afraid of the moments before dying, I think

more than I am afraid of the dying.

2

Every time I see my sisters I talk about the
priestesses. For a while I thought I was only
transsexual due to global warming. The social
animal’s desire to prevent reproduction in a dying world.
The rejection of a
—
masculinity broken. This is untrue.
They were girls like me. Sumerian. Old.
They thought my thoughts. I wish I could be like them.
Listen, this next part is important and I mean it literally.
Every sister is divine so divine.

3

Every girl should be asked. Why not sneeze
Rrose Sélavy. Why not ask the same questions as the
first woman did, first like me. Cut from the
imperfect body of a man before her is her
gravestone
Yves or Eve.

3 and a half

I take her blue-tablet-sacrament
with the rising and setting sun.
We look to the same sky but
she sees more stars. Why not sneeze. Why not. Think.
She did not have words but she did question
like us.

A question I think we keep coming back to—


Were there faggots like me in Eden?

For it to be Eden, there must have been.


Why not build myths, Rrose Sélavy

4

One small question.
When does a tree stop being a tree.
I cut the root of
a tree and it is a tree.I cut the branch and it is a tree. I cut
the leaf and it is

Final.

Let us start again.

every time I sit to
write, I meet you and
try to meet you as
an equal on this page
. but I am afraid so
the I in this space
is not me speaking to
you the reader. the I

is, I hope, is someone
who will live longer than
me, even if I live
longer than a statistic says
my heart will beat for.
you. my heart will beat.
alone and unpretentious. for you
. no more. then stillness

A Rrose then Blooms

hand on the throat, or, dialectics

Take me out take me out take me out take me
in hands so gentle in a way I can feel safe.
Knowing you’re rough with years of false pretense.
Knowing your conviction in the past as void
as the unlife as the debt we paid to us
to burn as fags as supernova white hot.
Did you think this was a gift you could return?
You would never return | you would never die
the death only we can. I tell you that I’m
only mean to you because it gets you off.
I could find you devotions less abject and
be gentle like the world cannot, numbing pain.
You laugh. Call me a sweet girl, then you rebut:
Take me out take me out take me out take me.