Last night, walking along the water, I was reminded
“no idea is separate from her source.”
As in, meringue peaks are always whipped pleasure.
And poetry creates meaning with sound.
So, I pound out words,
marked by five intimacies with typewriters:
practically one machine
per decade since I was eight.
The same year I first costumed up/consumated my DollySupaLove.
A letter joining her fan club typed and retyped.
Before unintentional divisions of
time and space, constantly deconstructing fixed ideas-
an Olivetti, two Smith Coronas, a Gracia deLuxe, and finally my beLoved Royal Companion.
As a teenager I queered the billow of Laura Ashley curtains
the shadow of late day Texas sun
the carpeted impressions after hours on my back with a book.
Yes, sitting with things to say, suspended in time,
learning how to control the blooming of my colors.
I am a queer container. Who came into organizing
for the electric eel of imagined change.
Bright writing as self regulation
-the sizable difference between my hands and yours.