Los Angeles, CA, USA



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Poem: Rialto

December 14, 2016

At the local amusement park—
    I am sometimes a ten year old boy.
A ten year old girl asks to hold hands
A small palm of kindling for the heart

I do not know what this means

I pray the Ferris wheel to turn me inside-out
   Collect steel in place of soft-crying organ,
   A boy throwing sticks against the oncoming train
Begin an honest man, here.

If I
keep holding
for one
She will believe I am in love with her, too.

Snow does not fall anywhere near where we are
But some still want to build shelter
Feel warmth between the parts that do not exist

I have no memories
before being made of sex

trying my body on in the shower,
   after that,
Ejaculating for the first time at a friend's house,
 growing concerned—
 thinking now there is evidence
 now I will give myself away,
 No longer aroused
   after that
The night that stole me
  Growing inside of someone else now

If you ask a child a question
They will tell you a series of truths
We do not learn a lie until
it is time to survive

Maybe joy must come
only from keeping to one's self(?)

On the street beside the railroad tracks
The neighbor's boys—
    The younger one missing an eye;

Their yard full
    A family, stories high, pine leaves–
or something like it, I think
We ran through them all day once
Another, two years older than I
   This one, both eyes running after me

I do not know what this means,
but I run slow and smile

I know more than I know.


There must be snow falling somewhere
in the shape of my missing body

Some time later.
A new school.
A girl asks me to a dance using
a series of riddles in each classroom
She is not a boy
And this week
the sky is the skin of an apricot

I watch a brushfire eat the hills
somewhere behind my house
it is miles away—miles
but I know it is all there
and then gone

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December 14, 2016

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