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Boyle’s law, party of maximum occupancy?
It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to
Crop tops burlesque
storming the threshold
to evade the storm
the tornado in whose face,
on the way in, we spat.
This July, with the city
coughing up bullets, the faucets
oozing regurgitated lead like
mama birds, minimum wagers, factory butches, part time musicians settling
into their stoops like effluvium
in a sea salt lung, like dust from a bulldozed
crack house onto its neighbors’ roofs,
like strangers dressed as photons
filtering over my threshold,
out of and beyond the storm, Boyle’s law
the way the small volume doubles, triples
the pressure. I have gathered you here
tonight into a knot, into an un-untwistable braid, to declare a state of emergency, to climb up ropes made of the person in front of you.
Turn that person in front of you
around gently then sling that sexy
schmuck over your shoulder like precious
cargo, cock-a-hoop.
Shake their hand
tell them a name
break their ice with your teeth
gnaw them into a shape they find
acceptable.
Newfound happiness like
sandpaper on our work’s edges but c'est la we. Someone hold this scene like a child for as long as it takes. Cry if you’re moved. It’s summer in south bend. I’ve declared this city’s queers untouchable.
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