It would be trite to say “we’re all exhibitionists now,” because it isn’t true. It is true that those of us who have exhibitionist tendencies are seduced by this medium into endless revelations. Or do I mean Revelation (it’s singular in the Bible, oddly, maybe because it all gets revealed, if not all at once, in a relatively short time span).

I find that the people I envy most are those who can dwell in a rarefied hermeticism. Or those who shrink from confession. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be one of those people. It’s not that I don’t hold back. I do. But only as much as I can to keep life livable.

OK, here comes a hot flash, and I have to go to work.

Oh but first, a poem I don’t think I’ve posted yet:


Amy Winehouse lines her eyes
with the penis of mayhem:
a woman on the subway
plucks her beard. Anus fully
occupied by peace medallion,
like turquoise man-bracelets,
like ding, like sich.

The letter C first makes me
think of abjection – no not
first, or second, but third.
Hunched over in illness or in
laughter: take that, Abulafia!

Transforming the letters into prinking
nightmares. Autistic constant
biting with the lower jaw
and a blunt-tonguing the air –
and this is compulsion, too.
This is composition, too.

Race, fur hat, wig, president,
blow job, sanitizer, fur hat, calculator,
president, blow job.

Anus medley – shouting the sprout,
as the eyes grow tails. I like tuna
salad but not tuna.

The stock market sez: the poetry
is sublime, castles burning, etc.
They can’t take this sucky shit –
womanhood – away from me.

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