The Plumbing Tree
 Adult Crawls
 Parrots of Erotic Island
 The Hearing of Linda Taylor
 Inside His Hat is a Host
 Revenge Poem
 Cloak of Earthly Objects
 Shy World
 We Are Lesion
 Im A Ballad

       Adult Crawls (Recalcitrant Bodies Text, 2017)
       The Ho'full Subject (Audio & Essay 2016)
       Style as a Theater of Resistance (2016)

~For Isadora Vaughn, upon the opening of her show Recalcitrant Bodies at Honeymoon Suites. June 2017

Adult Crawls

So, I moved to a city with no center, thinking it would be so nice to have no dominating locale. It was political, this move. A shift towards horizontality, away from value judgment. Before I left I said, I WANT shapelessness, I WANT the open-end, I WANT THIS PLACE WITH NOW CENTER.

When I felt this wind, it dilated my eyes. Instantly reorganizing and contracting the what I thought was to I seem to have got it all wrong. I was considering vistas and looking far, but now I seem to be grounded in skintight terrain. Lights and buildings sending their own shapes towards me in billowing hysteria. Life disturbing life, and it's fussing all over us, like a confinement gone insane. I tried to fight it, but it seems that I've made up my own center, a personal dominion found its way through. My feelings have the keys; I now have to face what I choose to see. And somehow, despite wanting to do away with it, I've formed a world that no one else can really enter. In the desire to eliminate structure, I've become obsessed with my own. It's funny to become your own tyrant, even when you thought you knew better. My disavowal of centers is just proof of their perpetual company. The thing I desire has the capacity to revert and attack, revealing a logic impartial to my own. I can't make a world by declaring others null. I'll have to carry both these things, the center and its bagginess, with me into the unknown future. I'll hold them close to my chest, allowing them to flicker and twist between my breasts. I hold this lesson close, and let desire go.

A body reflecting the climate, a body reshaping to climate, a climate blurring the feelings of the state of being. I talk about the weather all the time now. I'm obsessed with finding it's subtle changes, asking others exactly how they feel about the color orange. Asking, are we in this world or did we just get pulled out?

Now, we work like the weather, becoming absent and present all at once. It's an attitude that shapes form, no matter what is touched there is a shadow that spits and pops from the underbelly. The forms are a detritus to the attitudinal shifts, weather patterns read inside out.
Antonin Artaud writes in To Have Done With the Judgement of God (a horrifying, crackling monologue written as Artaud was in the last holds of rectal cancer)

And truly/ must it be reduced to this stinking gas, my body?
To say that I have a body because I have a stinking gas that forms inside me?...

He understood that he would not receive full justice, full being let's say, until he was returned to a body without organs. That is a body without sections or parts, no longer a series of individual things disconnected within a form. Sort of like soft vision, but not soft at all, more like the violent potential of all at once. Terror holding beauty's hand, because she knows they will always be joined together. Like a Russian doll stack, finding each other within the negative placed part. And I'm not afraid to say it. I hold this lesson close and let desire go.

I learned about psychic freedom from this thing without parts. A spreading, flickering, undying sensation that there are forces and ghouls that possess and travel between us and things, making us into things. Erogenous things, sensual things that can't help but touch.

When my friend was in intense pain I tried to find a way to go there with him. I tried to imagine my body as his, feel what he was feeling so I could begin to relate and understand to what he was trying to describe. What did time and space feel like for him? It was a mystery to me even when we shared a room. Was it like my stomach pain, was it like my ass ache? I don't know, how would I ever. I can't use my memory of prior illness and pain to shape and turn or screw this into a relational merge. There will always be that gap. There will always be an absent third that dangles and taunts between my own form and his. I hold this lesson close and let desire go.

Until we became true erotic spirits,

they pressed me
until the idea of body
and the idea of being a body
was suffocated
in me,
and it was then that I felt the obscene
and that I farted
from folly
and from excess
and from revolt
at my suffocation.
Because they were pressing me
to my body
and to the very body
and it was then
that I exploded everything
because my body
can never be touched.
I hold this lesson close and let desire go.