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[edenamador]

Still Desperate for Attention

A. What’s sad, lonely, dark, and angsty?

B. Millennial poetry on Tumblr. . . 

A. The deeper the wounds, the prettier the death. 

B. Yes, sure, still suicidal as fuck, probably thirty now, and still masturbating in his mother’s basement, trying to be a porn star, but you know, there’s still time to become something else. 

A. Like what? A professor of literature?

B. No, the reincarnation of Jesus. 

A. What’s the difference between Jesus and a professor of literature. 

B. Likely several differences, but mainly concerning what water can stand in for. 

A. Where is all of this going? Does character A. even have a back story? Who’s character B?

B. It’s all me really, but let’s stop before things get complicated. 

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Butt Cheeks

God grabbed the flesh of the Rocky Mountains, 

and the breast of the Appalachians, 

Spreading them apart, Old faithful emerged,

Giving us that never ending well of desire

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The Flowing Flowers

I search through emptiness of a day to find the flowers of my past

Perfect histories of ourselves stuffed into the mysteries of the techne

Pixelated vortex of the flesh, 

textured spiderweb, 

wet in the night, dirt places absorbing the curious

New pasts are blooming,

Morning glories erupt and wrinkle like worms after the rain

vanishing, in the infinite black hole of desire, 

stored beyond the limit of our memory, mesmerized infinitely 

again until the night

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Gay Pride Poetry

Cute guy is looking for cute bookish guys

I’m bookish, but not sure where the cute can be found

Maybe if I write about my butt, that’s definitely cute

Maybe it’s just a word game

I am cute. . . but there is him too 

Perceiver and creator

Author and other

“What genres do you like?”

Oh my God, he responded. 

Don’t act too eager. 

Don’t start drooling like a disgusting pig. 

Contain your excitement, you are just looking for friends after all. 

“Love is a failure.” Sartre said. 

A good place to end. 

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Bike Ride Through The Alleyways

What can be learned from the back yards of strangers? For example, I didn’t know Christmas trees were recyclable and could fit inside the recycling canister. Good to know for some future I’d care not to have. 

Little blips of lilacs leave purple stains in the mind and remind me that spring will die in winter. Again, a fresh break from the usual pattern of garbage can, garbage can, recycle bin. A bird with a worm in its mouth flies away. Hiding in the lilac bush it swallows an entire life whole. 

And how did this rusty grocery cart get here? What is its purpose and why did someone have to have it? Was it free? More questions than answers but I accept the fact of its universal presence. A conundrum that one day might be solved. Judgement? No, more curiosity than anything else. One day I might be in need of a grocery cart in my back yard. I too might have a purpose. 

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A Job

I’ll get a job when I need a job

I don’t need one now, 

Or for a few months really

With a job, or without one

Miserable either way really

Can’t tell which one is worse

Having or not having

Cause its been so long

but I keep not getting one

vaguely looking

sort of remembering the last one

Remembering all the stupidity

Navigating all the demands

Not knowing when to say yes or no

Wondering if I would lose my job if I had it

Never losing it but always quitting

Because I don’t want it

I want the money without the work

A fantasy that came true under extremely bizarre circumstances

So I guess dreams do come true

As awful as it is

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The Candy Bowl at The Party

Big empty party, 

lots of people

Perfumed flesh and fabricated bodies

yet nobody to relate to

My eye looks past the pretty ones and spots the candy bowl

“Is that peanut brittle?”

Slipping past distinguished guests

The people I should know

The scholars, the actors, the big players in politics

One asks, “Why are you here?”

“I came for the peanut brittle. . .”

And you?

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Perverting Nationalism

That old English drinking tune

“Anacreon in Heaven”

Oh, beautiful young America, the Greeks snuck in

Hung up on sodomitic cadences,

Gone soprano,

Little did the chastised choir know

That anal theologies brought back 

The dead theory, that

White supremacy was two men fucking

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Atheist Emily Dickinson

A man on a porch

looks at a bird

It’s a God damn fucking Robin

reproducing spring, smells like cow turd

so Emily Dickinson can sing

about the presence of God

in every God damn thing

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and there in the grass

a predator watching

the devil herself

a bored fat cat

ready to pounce

on that Godly bird

that universal simplicity

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now fangs in its eyes

blood possessed and hypnotized

by a desire

for power, a power to know everything, to be everywhere, 

to see everything for exactly what it is

a limited view a man on the porch

watching a cat

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Don’t Romanticize Suffering

I want to universalize, the cheese

to get away from the wine 

and make it speak to everyone

openly, truthfully, in a sloppy way 

that begins tweeting, purring

so that the birds and bees can understand

so that the ants will feel free to clean up the crumbs

and the mice will be my party friends

I’m ready, to sink into the ground, caught in the trap of some mindless human, who thinks one is better than mice

a cry for help, individual? oh all of humanity is nibbling the crumbs

and everyone is crying for help these days

because we were never allowed to be babies

immediately the growing up process begins

to get away from, that feeling of pooping oneself

and giggling because some other smuck has to

deal with it, bastards, wipe it! Wipe it, and I’ll shit again, two minutes after your done wiping. . . 

just as the garbage man empties the bin the chores of the house are finished with another fucking plop of garbage testifying to the endlessness of humanity’s flows, and my mother

said, my father, was an alcoholic

that I might be inclined to follow in his shoes

can you imagine that diapered monster of myself

grinning from ear to ear, 

sipping on wine bottles in a basement filled with wine bottles

pointing a gun in some undetermined direction

causing some undetermined series of events

which, one day, leads to myself to stand in front of a mirror

asking how I differ from the neighbor who

stands in front of the mirror

before

eating, then pooping, 

a natural process which, like biological determinations

is destined to infinite repetitions

bubbles, blowing, popping

you might end up like that

but my father was not

a million things that I am

so even with the wine, the dry skin, and the general sense of despair and hopelessness 

I still find the time to imagine myself as an alcoholic baby with a death wish

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Gay Millennial Fiction

I’ve got these brand name Ritz crackers, brand name Calvin Klein underwear, and a block of mozzarella cheese I found out on the streets the other day. I was walking around, sort of pointless, doing some exercise to get a six pack and some muscles on these scrawny bones. Just as I start burning out I see this box. The box has some food in it. I could use some food to offset these student loans leftover from the days I bought into the concept of being somebody. So I take the cheese and the box of cereal. It’s forty degrees out. Should be fine. Nice day really.

Leftover wine from yesterday to get me through the time I spend spending money on my time doing nothing because I don’t like going out there. Out there, into the world, people saying stupid things about the times, doing pointless things about the times. It is a nightmare, ratty people, just like me. Miserable smucks like me trying to be greater than they really are, ugly, urban, wandering around and waiting for the next thing to happen.

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Plasma Purely Ignorance

“Revelation of identity in the space of intimate love effortlessly overturns an entire public systematics of the natural and the unnatural, the pure and the impure.” pg. 76

“Are you going to give blood?” 

No. I give plasma.

“Same difference.” A funny phrase - two dicks are a pussy. 

This is the normal lie that a person who stands corrected by the mere fact of the object given states in order to conceal their ignorance. 

The plasma is separated from the blood and my blood is returned to me. If I was giving plasma I wouldn’t get paid. 

Blowing up, blood boiling, my fluids questioned, “Penis? Last four months?” Male, male donations interrogated like one of the male - males isn’t married to a woman, temporarily separated from blood family, to suck a cock discretely on the side before returning to monogamous arrangements as dictated to them by the heterosexual dick-tator-tot-hot-dish-ship. Yum. 

Gotta eat to make plasma, can’t live from bread alone, and so I guess I donate blood to the majority view of things, and that the minor details of the facts, simply don’t matter. Critical anal-ysis of the insertion withdrawing, isn’t allowed. Same difference.  

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Charlottesville Uncloseted Neo-Nazis

“I’m not Jewish.” I say to the worker who apologizes for the plasma donor who said something anti-Semitic loudly. He said about a dozen things before the matter that made my blood boil, making me think about those Charlottesville lines, “Blood and Soil, Blood and Soil, fuck you faggots, fuck you faggots.”

All of my past emerged as I told him he went to far, raising my own voice. He touched my shoe asking me if I didn’t think Jesus was killed by Jews. I know next to nothing about the history of the Bible and know that his earlier statement wasn’t a lecture on the history of the Bible, it was, first and foremost, a swipe against Jews. When I spoke up his first words were, “I got one,” as if he were proud he pissed some libtard off. 

After I said I didn’t think his statements were appropriate in the context of the past four to five years, or never for that matter, he said, “Mind your own business.”

I became more outraged saying, “It is my business! I am in this space right now and I can hear what you said!”

Internally I was wondering why I was becoming so outraged and I realized that my gay identity has become understood through the work of people who have identified as Jewish. Furthermore, that in the Holocaust, they came not only for Jews, but for homosexuals, among others through the process of othering of which he was partaking with his statements. 

“Esther’s deception is made necessary by the powerful ideology that makes Assuerus categorize her peaople as unclean. . . and an abomination against nature.” pg. 75 Epistemology of The Closet

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Opinions as Oral Anal Speech

When I exist, when I speak, I often here, “Everyone is entitled to an opinion. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one.”

Opinions become holes for facts which becomes threats to original purposes of holes. The holes in which a suburban family begins becomes a private petri-dish of protected analysis.

“The act of coming out was judged not to be highly protected under the First Amendment because it does not constitute speech on a matter “of public concern.” pg. 70 epistemology of the closet. 

Facts which threaten the innate dirtiness of opinions are identified, by microscopes, as anal seeking ideas. They seek to penetrate the mind, to dilate the paradigm, and shift power. A gay man’s speech is always, “Talking from one’s ass.”

The phrase, “everyone has an opinion” is usually said after something counterintuitive has been said as a way to make all statement stink like childish diapers. It has an equality effect of rendering all private speech to uselessness. All speech is coming out. 

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Pizza Rolls and Kierkegaard

It is possible to eat pizza rolls, drink wine, and listen to Hubert Dreyfus describe Kierkegaard. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecLT5aiMc34

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Perverting Masculinity

Axiom 1: People are different from each other. 

Egg plants, turkey basters, bananas, mop handles, espresso machines, ketchup drawings shaped like dicks, cloud formations, and more. An inkwell is an inkwell, a pen-is. 

“It is astonishing how few respectable conceptual tools we have for dealing with this self evident fact.” pg 22 epistemology of the closet.

The reason we have so few respectable conceptual tools is that academics look respectability. They have time for such things as respectability, time to shower, time to shave, time to think. Instead we should look for the precise moments in which the ontological agency of the body requests to be spit on, to swallow spit,  and to fantasize about being gay bashed. The death instinct is very much alive. We should seek the moments in which the bottom didn’t clean out enough and when the top, says, “you have nothing to be ashamed about”. Without those moments, nothing genuinely private happens. In this moment there happens to be something concrete to work with. Something that smells ripe with authenticity. Something embarrassing but never forgotten. 

Same, different, different doesn’t mean opposite. Clean/dirty bottom/top. A black chair and a white chair, let’s not go there, opposite, difference is. .. . penises, dicks that are dicks, small and large dicks, straight dicks, gay dicks, lesbian dicks. There are a lot of dicks. Female dicks, male dicks. Cocks, dicks, pricks. 

Desperate to be different people find dicks in iced coffee and the way a person walks. While straight men are better at coming up with dick metaphors than gay men it doesn’t mean their dicks are different, they simply think about the possibility of dicks. The proof? Working in the back of the kitchen is low status work, it comes in through the back, so masculinity erects itself in the anal caverns of working class labor. Work is familiar. 

“In more familiar ways, Marxist. . . . . critical projects have deepened understandings of a few crucial axes of difference.” 24

Literary theorists rarely say anything about existential understandings, by which I mean, the lived life of the absurd of being in the back of the kitchen washing dishes. They overlook the strong impulse to be a somebody in the world, after at the expense of obliterating to find the substantiated nothingness of themselves in the undiscussed other. The death of my cousin. 

The dick, is familiar to straight men because it is a real man’s dick. A gay man questions the existence of his dick in the way a trans person may question its being there. In a way it is thought about less. On the Other hand the belief in a REAL dick, is a crucial tool for understanding the ability of straight men to see dicks in every object they touch. They are especially artistic in the presence of gay penises: turkey basters,  Egg plants, hot dogs, sausages, mop handles, espresso machines, ketchup drawings shaped like dicks, cloud formations, and more. An inkwell is an inkwell, a pen-is.

“Even identical genital acts mean very different things to different people.” 25

It could also be said that identical genitals mean very different things to different people with the same genitals. Identity is not founded upon the same square even when two squares are objectively identical. 

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Secret Fires

“Just light the trailer-house on fire on a Sunday because the DNR doesn’t work those days. They don’t want to pay them overtime!”

My uncle bragging about how, he can, break the law, “as the open secret” of masculine power. I have to agree with Sedgwick, “it’s only by being shameless about risking the obvious that we happen into the vicinity of the transformative”

“These nails, these scraps of wiring: will they bore or will they shock?” 22 Epistemology of The Closet

The fire fighters started to come down the old road when my brothers were recording a bonfire, which contained, my piano burning. A private property fire led to a concerned citizen calling the publicly funded welfare state, a man, to the scene. If they knew there was a ravine, they wouldn’t have had to come a different way, giving my brothers the time to put out the flames they had for each other, complicit in each others homo-erotic burnings of their faggot brothers piano. They stepped into the closet as they sprayed their hoses on the flames to reduce it to a legal fire. 

What about the kiosk? The kiosk my gay cousin lit on fire? That’s different. That’s a gay fire, a public fire put out by the public officials. The welfare queen of desires, caught, sent to prison where he died, intentionally undermedicated. Entangled in the constructions of legal codes, his flame never died. He keeps flaming in my own heart as I douse my rage with theoretical reasons for his death compared to the well doings of straight men in my life. A project I keep doing because I’m dying with him.