Matuk - The real horse: poems

Praise for The Real Horse Book as gelatin silver print. Book as blurry pink mouth. Kiss the book. Delay the form. Form as carport, beneath which the days region of objects glitter for a few moments, then dissolve. Farid Matuk has written a book of this sort.

I read it forever beneath the trees where the horses are. The real horse, that is. A book that retrains us how to bear proximities. Book as finite resistances: the citrus fields but also a lit cigarette that flares above it, the precisest feeling. Or touch. Bhanu Kapil As in the illusion of animal locomotion through the slots of a nineteenth-century zoetrope, Farid Matuks The Real Horse animates discontinuities of sight and ensuing sound from the historical vault: subjects of social fascination, bodies of the landed and deracinated, fugitives of racial brutality.

Lines engender ambient occasions, course surfaces, and a frontier diminishment enacted as present personhood, pushed into forms of a real outlaw daughterinto dissociative voices of inheritance. Roberto Tejada I read The Real Horse out loud, in one gulp, and I felt provoked, moved, dazzled, and shaken by its relentless, bone-stirring energy where the terror and care of parenting traverse landscapes haunted by militarized states, racial orders, and family narratives of migration and undocumentation from Syria to the Andes to California. The coast is exploding, writes Matuk, and, as it explodes, he births this life-archive for his daughter to find like a secret treasure in the future. Read this cherished book to wake up, to plow through the poetics of demented nationhood, to reimagine the networks that define us. Daniel Borzutzky THE REAL HORSE Camino del Sol A Latina and Latino Literary Series The Real Horse POEMS Farid Matuk The University of Arizona Press www.uapress.arizona.edu 2018 by Farid Matuk All rights reserved. Published 2018 ISBN-13: 978-0-8165-3734-1 (paper) Cover design by Leigh McDonald Publication of this book is made possible in part by the proceeds of a permanent endowment created with the assistance of a Challenge Grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, a federal agency.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Matuk, Farid, author. Title: The real horse : poems / Farid Matuk. Other titles: Camino del sol. Description: Tucson : The University of Arizona Press, 2018. | Series: Camino del sol : a Latina and Latino literary series Identifiers: LCCN 2017042849 | ISBN 9780816537341 (pbk. paper) Subjects: | LCGFT: Poetry. paper) Subjects: | LCGFT: Poetry.

Classification: LCC PS3613.A8756 A6 2018 | DDC 811/.6dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017042849 Printed in the United States of America This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Who should the poets voice be for? Roque Dalton For a daughter among the navigators, among the names. CONTENTS The Real Horse Dear daughter, We really did sit in the playground at your school this summer listening to cicadas drone loopy and sly. In my head they sounded like professionals narrating their work into online performance reviews, like lovers or sex workers narrating their sex into phone cameras. Out loud we wondered if their noise might fold the distance in the background into something that would reach us. I dont know when youll read this, but I started these poems as a way to see you even before you arrived, anxious about how the body we gave you would bear powers projections.

Im simple, so it took me a long time to recognize the circle I was making. I thought I could write something you could use, but you already resist the orders, displacing generation from genealogy, paternity from ownership. Otherwise, Im just trying to keep up with your natural-born solutions to the problem called space that here is said to come large and without mercy. This first world would be valued for counting uspatriated or natural-bornamong its circumstantial few. You show me that even if the outlines of our circumstance burn without consequence, we can tend at once to the plain moment and to material things and to the projections they bear. Someone is always poised to compare that tending to the cicadas hum, saying it drones out reason or that it tries to fill the gap between estranged things with a self-positioning song.

Thats okay, because maybe our tending is already figured in a favorite books title that says Life in a Box is a Pretty Life. I mean, maybe its on us to make it ugly, or even prettier, or to see that its always also some other way. I dont know, but I dont think were in the box alone or practicing the same contortions. Some of us get out all the time, riding what? Maybe the best thing to do outside is litter the panorama, interrupting the idea of roaming an expanse without end. Ive been reading about performance artist Tehching Hsieh; he was undocumented in the 1980s, like me. I was the age you are now when Hsieh came to this country to braid art into life by committing to the frame of the made thing.

In that frame, when he tried to get free, he went into a cage. When he escaped time, he punched a clock on the hour. When he spoke, he made sure a friend sealed the tapes that recorded his words. You and Hsieh make me wonder if freedom might be neither public nor private, if what sometimes gets called the aesthetic might be happiest at war not with material things but with the anesthetic. Where does opposition go after it frames our beautiful camaraderie? Im learning from you that we can stay, unrushed in our figuring. Where these poems are something like sonnets, Im trying to draw the box a song makes in the air, a box into which we can turn away.

Maybe thats a space where we come together as one anothers occasions, not in relation, but in service with a little s , in service to the little things you say to twist or wipe away the track of the next minute. Inside, I took out what punctuation I could to make more room for you. Your Instructions you are somebody else who didnt know me ever pretend that but I was going to be here next to you and the horse walked between us really slow but really and then a fire came and didnt hurt anybody but only the horse forgot about it then Ill tell you what the words said the shadow was a plane pretend that when you take your face out of the water but then you have to take the water out of the bowl with you like that dream I only ever had two dreams but then I was at Pump It Up with all my friends A Daughter Having Been of the Type Popular in the eighteenth century across Spains viceroyalties, sets of casta paintings rendered in each panel a mother, father, and child with a caption that labeled the type such breeding vectored: De mestizo e India, nace coyote . De indio y cambuja, nace lobo torna atrs . Popular in California through the second half of the nineteenth century, studio and field photographs (taken in Sacramento, unspecified, Los Angeles, Bodie, unspecified...) documented those condemned within and without the law. Mounted on card stock, they were sold or traded as keepsakes.

In 1857 Juan Flores and his men killed Sheriff James Barton and most of his posse in the hills outside Los Angeles. The accusation that La Chola Martina Espinoza tampered with the Barton posses guns moved landed white and Californio men together to lynch poor brown men. The only known photograph of Espinoza, a street portrait, was taken late in her long life and under a bright sun. having been raised in friends sailing up the river to the world so far the wrong way a tidal bore as an actuary wave brings a girl etched at the prow bearing shining hospitality we told her to and do you come to learn you are following appetites we trail through a tribe somewhere called a claim to life if you exceed the world refusing categories and the emancipatory projects these prescribe were playing a game called a game or pledge of resistance where a boy speaks fast at the pizza stand more available to be seen the young in their concerns amid the old artifice nonstop letting go the signs thrown up above their heads along the West Coast liquid kids displayed right at the edge of a voice comes a fold careless of time bearing everything besides having ordered our faces into types by the planes water cuts into stones or by furloughed light that visits purpling the sheer sides of Cascadia Saddleback Cordillera Andes Jabal Bahra light that visits animals sleeping fearless and afeared our grain of fur in outlines laid at the fingertips of settlers indolence they said having issued from a mestizo in names in love with an Indian hardly capable of managing a territory or a coyotes face pushed into form aside property by how many degrees and of what how could this be about freedom that a coyote go turn in its type a daughter Juan Flores curled onto my chest a daughter plein air a mother archive erasure a daughter durable good durable history a daughter over the throwing a father blacken the hills a father high and tight a father reservoir of poses good foot sure shot glory sign without doubt greaser horse thief albumen print a daughter handle their guns gelatin silver print preformatted postcard paper running blurry pink mouth a mother commercial surf pop echo a daughter shout pouch a father rendered by or under the inspection of mestizo castizo coyote lobo versino a mother waste not want a region of objects photo plate 12 a daughter sell the shadow caddisflies a daughter unblushing a mother rhyolite a daughter turn away the night a daughter her own sex a daughter her fumbling a daughter mission delay the form courtesy of a mother not a lane a father the empty highways the farms to market a daughter tucked under my chin a daughter watching streetlights carte de visite funny name a mother thirty-thousand-foot view panorama nostalgia ghost mineral depression a daughter vitamin free a father crystal mane a mother amber leaf light a father hole within the hole a daughter twelve-sail cruiser or we could go mirrored upon the face of the waters that bear loose slide surfboards shaped for this break or upon the plains where winds arrange those who aspire to a safe room those who fall off the beat those who fall off the sad feeling in the story of Ellington arranging a confidence from your ear like believe we were good having gone this far from Peru from my dad beating her into foreign reaches my mother with her sisters cleared refugees from the country of women cruising with our bad taste inside we were illegal on paper then say we were a patriated glory borne faster upon the face of the waters checking our miracles against the stories of a usable past going off in drunk songs in right-to-work uniforms exponentially articulated going all around even in the English sound of the names brought on us dick-nosed bearded swill buckets we were what shouldnt matter to you now already gone the lantana generating at your feet so proud rightly of your chaos of your trumpets chambered in carports gilding the days region of objects but will you come to say for yourself as some say as a sign and claim to getting over in an echoing true name something like I am an American artist and still the question may come did the landed come to your mothers beds masked in the busy snouts of animals or were they born that way do you get to follow them back say its not like that it gets kinda rough on the back of the horse in the back of our limousine sailing as real across a sea why wouldnt we expect another desert out the windshield quinoa amber light fronds wave up the hill and back up dancers raise stockinged knees to the left describe the world new romantics sing precisely of women and pictures inside me our grown heads against the glass like Saint Sebastians displayed under a moon that petrifies we went loping snout free fuzzed out the night the Pacific went louder every tree a channel to talk in eucalyptus peels that lined the road in eucalyptus oil unblushing at wildfire and salt blew back an orange was feeding you reaching up peppermint tea fog against your mothers ribs against the door hung so possible now your long feet walk a new topography down the lane run to catch up fog turn away the night night turn away the moon moon turn away so we can see it lamp in the night could be a name for each Syrian hill poised along my mothers line now burning and my landed greeds love wishes you a right to rest in any countrys dust no matter the habits or confusions or what jellyfish washed ashore might think of you animal oyster roe beef wrapped in a warm feeling fearing you the prophet in his glory needed to know what a people said about him outside still water and doe piss and reed straws sucking the lagoon up inside themselves to share in life a people says sprinkle the unused words to the bottom a people says we are as good as each feather tip of brush grass reaching into the wind this coast is exploding all over the waves leaves are hungry I can tell you about it Im trying to not forget the lyric part the noise youll welcome as a twin the faster cymbals ringing all down the hill the ocean swills in from the south one wave by the arch rock the next on its shoulder and so on to the point the point lifts them up there are holy women somewhere alive with your techne with your name Mary meant of the sea even if pictures dont hold anyone still cement pipe cover painted blue shattered peels of blue paint in the grass and Andean hills seemed quiet forever should we call our names to a moon gone slicing a meter from the mountain that left my dad trying to be a dad by owning us that left him rendered by or under the inspection of colonial art academies reaching through generations in lightfast oil paints do I let what can leave the house as a type called Cheese of all the milks Suspended in midair or Taking a step back from whiteness going low three coyotes hump down the valley deep in peeled exteriors in the hay dust come to see scrub brush scents the path of what fire will be called alongside a shoulder remembers itself from its impressions newly in the photographs I look for local kill sites Sacramento then unspecified then us sweat straw smell heavy stage curtains not what was said in the nose or on the good foot everything is leaving upon the face of the waters gone so far into a next name if were fish baskets when caulked with sedge caddisflies sweet flag are we called winnowing sieves when hauled across land I mean friends and local ghosts could pass through us they want to see yellow flowers in the desert and boys on their dirt bikes going in saturated shadows and light-sensitive paper solutions invite allegory at every turn like if youre walking any of your faces at the encounter into paper emulsified for pictures in silver salts or bitumen its at least 1841 when settlers would minister a seduction pressing you into silver nitrate along a vast sheet can you see your hand in the sky behaving itself each wrinkle on the paper claimed into a new type table salt to silver nitrate making a sensitivity to light gelatin in iron salts the cyanotype calotype platinotype in pigment gum arabic with potassium dichromate oil and bromoil prints will you be closer to the falling away of the gaze of things choosing the process a daughter Juan Flores or a real outlaw daughter curled onto my chest looking doubled exactly like us does it matter our decorations cant help themselves stepping out ahead in a horizon lines bands of purple black every night stacked on this unlit town over young heads crowded by a bubbling upsweep into something like a curio from each glass nook watch what friendly air may come borrowing Floress eyes said to be neither black gray nor blue greatly resembling those of the owl listen for chaste nouns in time some mercury silver mylar little verbs if any that were ever set in a human head transactions being forms that change whats to see not how to move through the mirrored rooms of the dead restored to a fresh churned smell after my hand stained with outside worries an inner wall no collapse a turning over greed for the picture archive I lose my place but stamped on the tin frame of our mirror two long-tailed birds kiss a flower between them its like some people you see proud with their daytime running lamps and metals in the sun a posse can think it comes home to flashing eyes of seoritas they say little lady lords out West a land dotted with practitioners full of old commercial surf pop echo that wants nothing but projection seas awesome trees in the wind archive wanting the voice-over the sun ghost Los Angeles a clean way to hug the young ocean salt on desert air ghosts the cool expanse of the hour ahead wed try not to show our eyes until they passed bright white light these days better than a day searching eyes could so easily interrupt at least youre in it is that the success when trees shake over sisters or brother trees make shadow pools for drone traffic the record doesnt say Sheriff Bartons posse was a white as cute as eye shadow as a model plane the men take to the quiet depth so well dead they said cuz La Chola mishandled their guns Boeing Phantom Ray shadows the record in its truth and beauty kinsmen go down nattering stir the bowl into a reservoir moon little one our water if theres already an archive in the noise where youre the outlaw well bring you messages in the willows in the citrus fields high bright flowers reek a spice for free and if the sheriff drops his big voice on Sepulveda making a show out of being a thing with you when the cymbals go echoing in the finger bells sibilant into the fan sways the hills at his yellow heels when he asks about the desperate like its not everyones name says it was your fault that Predator engine hum always stored under the stairs so what if you signaled your men with a lit cigarette in a house by night we could still play in the sunshine all orange marker well draw a box seen from above keep decorating it with stickers Christmas-themed presents and glittering Christmas-eyed mermaids is what a people are saying about him no history no figuring no I mean really if we could gather thick as these stickers about him never suiting what we make to a commons that needs a shout pouch fashioned from a fact of a most beautiful necklace of human ears on a rawhide string even if your names open beneath you intimate as your next thought cymbaling on the shore arranging all those grains of sand mica in the mosaic of the bank portico what lived and storied coordinates that youre young that you wont be blank for me or for the cluster of antennae the remaining Barton men make of themselves listening between understandings along the yellow fire hills of California just one surfeit ridge could tin the wind out ringing for the ears of the twenty arrested since the sheriffs killing left alive in custody and I had the nerve to look at pictures when buildings echo one another across the office park draw doors on everyone a sound can break space or enfold it cut through the sea as a twelve-sail clipper I said or be the sea to eel virus and gaze swirl the reservoir of what was said our shoulders remember themselves from whose impressions grass then air then Coloma then San Diego then unspecified sweat straw smell heavy stage curtains not what was said in the nose or the good foot settles on the plastic bits cheap pretty bright red beads loosed this wind rolls the dead lean into a parade above our roof carry a disaster this way unspecified Los Angeles Bodie unspecified Shasta toward my stepping off the strain of new thought if one day well be in a state in a lost place in a tent city will you be left to talk for us will you see the tree of yellow flowers the vinyl sheet pitched for a roof water in gasoline cans hurried across hands but today along our row of cubicles a sun staff in the blue recycle bin shows its walls as a slight blue coalescent plastic place a horses jawbone on our piles give something to the nuns to hold have them weave your sheets then burn us indiscrete with your words but for now do I keep telling you its not that easy to step off the dock manic babies in sulfur and mercury in stars coming for us let artists be curious let them be alive in work A Daughter the Real Horse In 1861 Adah Menken started her long run playing the breeches role of the Cossack hero, Ivan Mazeppa. Navigating the theater houses of the United States and Europe, she used the press to alternately circulate and repudiate rumors of her mixed European and African ancestry. whats my work what I thought our shadow on the distaff side lined out women gone out either way from you pulling thread out of flax from the staff writing anything we want depilating or setting hair if each dimension in time is also another already folded in or stacked on top our work might fall off the display but maybe we dont during the war being a reliable thing to say what metals went into the sentence into the tack and spurs if iron was cheap lets say iron with what vigilance the books say was in the air everyone came to see the rebel hero sent away in Adahs body a thing she mastered onstage until it was a room she could leave shavings of metal on her fingertips animal grease in her teeth in her century no edits or quick takes outside of a train or strapped to a horse onto that externalizing love machines call up like when it rains drops shine slow in our desert air threaded about the water tower and eucalyptus grove like stage curtains heavy until theyre not like any of the videos that assume one day youll join those of us still looking the curtains lighten but never fall off the little swarms Napoleon Saronys publicity pictures lifted and split Adah into a New Orleans baby I will create a new sensation depend on it Adah promised that shudder in a long sequence where sides fold in time in edits in the eye she put herself there and gone in a dummys place tied to a real horse riding four stories up a narrow ramp a new feeling off a great horsewoman wolves on the run Inca doves fog the stage for an ideal man of refinement taciturn was a woman seen in their thousands conical retina tunnels layering each others looking so many times did it feel like they slapped space red to its surface then a fine ash in the wrinkles its not a space for details that fall away in words clean blood where no one steps in the reservoir you can see it between us seeping in degrees crusting or draining into various attitudes rendering feelings her busy arms would strip the air clean of critics saying She poses better than she speaks what of it reaches home hot wax pulling my mothers hairs leaving her made smooth where she made herself white having looked like a man at her I could seem one more thing shared across the light artifactual anything could be a mirror coupling the stripped robes was a shining copper flower clip in the aspect of a nipple the Cossack hero didnt care in the work of raising her shield in her hair in the shine of her toes dipped in oils from the dark horse hide are we a successful people putting your wilderness in the wide eye of the horse for you imagine the smallness of a European room beyond stylized tendrils of whipping mane as long as were looking the mirror was supposed to pass for our eyes my daughter Glaucon the negations were supposed to open as gates an immigrant California baby like me or a local made white enough to not begin exposed had to first pale beside someone like Laulerack Adahs Indian maiden then beside the African beauty French producers threatened to cast then beside the horses shine we were supposed to fold edges to look full on into an expanse of edges where our trot could achieve whose particular speed the horse might say engorged my tongue escapes its mouth but in sympathy the world will increase a color on the walls the backs of your knees open to drink in or maybe the horse would say there never is a stage much less the sand in which the theater sinks there is the dove and its shadow over the hero and her horse and the shadow is dense with its turning iterations and wet with its water and light with their light so if we have to realize generations of recorded advice like Go find some spectacle where your pretty face will show we can try it on loop and when the metals go loose of their tape they can light out for the Territory a vagabond of fancy the interest is painful in its intensity When the animal affrighted by the glare of fires and goaded the trail winding up between jagged rocks above a roaring stream to vanish on heights unguessed Born a dweller in tents a reveler in the tented habitation of war the whole country gorgeously illuminated say its not your shame because its our shame or were left available thats us blue sky behaving itself and two long-tailed birds on the frame of our mirror draw sugar refined from a flower between them the horse and the high ramp are givens to both cold and warm lighting schemes we bathe across the rooms we document by video some of us came here to be the real rider or the real horse the real hero whose real white skin picks up dirt water can wash and return to the ground floor of the purpling valley terrific cataracts tearful precipices work to be a given in the folding if I could be one of the rooms you pass through on your way out of you but how do I pull from that proposition a place for you to turn in regard if in the story of a thing I say there was a place its because the placed look back on us with this feeling face Ive been reading we could match to a green aspect in Kathakalis color-coded system of theater where actors younger than you learn a closed set of precisest faces and feelings something like Adah learned hers so what finite resistances of mountain planes did we make in your face we came here holding on to a stake in artifice Emilys butterflies plashless in the coined word swarm close then settle articulating the glam out of our echo would you even want to run as fast as a high-end line we could trust spinning the against movement equine of blur a... ...lights flashing and panorama painted of drum what does my pale sister want thy pale sister is named Adah laid soft upon your breast Adah would write well be concubines the maiden Laulerack explained where dust on the floor lifted on a breeze broken off its current upon the stand of eucalyptus outlines where their bodies were they filled with grayed leaves vertigo Adah would write what word there was to be said when the eyes of a dove led her to a clearing having darkened so many sidewalks animals get tired but dirt sparks in the traveling or I just want to be around you I just want to see us bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as in a pool shed write opportune your pale sister called to a party of white men a white woman is in danger so they were flushed toward soldiers ahead of startled men in the chiefs party who pierced Laulerack letting her fall upon Adah already in the wagon Adah would write I settled her dark curls touch she would say to white journalists who would write of the channel on Adahs thigh where a tomahawk grazed her while your dad banged at that door in the song I was wearing your colors to California coming to consciousness all heroines said where am I so consequently did I come to love them for twinning me while important reviewers amateur face sitters perch so far aside whiteness I cant even believe in the theorizing we offer them like reaching running toward and alighting from extraordinary points in sound and space creates new pathways to a future for sophisticates who decipher semantic crosscurrents of despair and a brief tearing at the veil of racial division makes a frontier where desire is improvised through and across coursing histotextuality a method marginalized writers use to braid historical allusions that contextualize and radicalize their work by countering the putatively innocuous generic codes they seem to have endorsed a site of self making for bodies in the cultural imaginary singing an anthem of simultaneity in a continuous space of renewal that repeats dissonance and lack of closure as a strategy of performative rigorously oppositional identity production or as a predicament bodies find themselves in whose momentary solutions we call dance imitating with a vengeance calling attention to the masquerade against the progressive ideology of the panorama wholl ride into a future slipping into and out of the white parts of men trying to save women and the world putatively bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as exposed to meet the lubricious demands of the male spectator and yet always confoundingly and performatively surplus negotiating and traversing astride the very moment of exposure I would sit naked and would write and by my means I would sit to write and would leave my shoes open near the window given to its wasteful passing knowing the tugging at my door was the wind pushing out as I would stage it flying into dissolution and that if the bigger house came next Id have our man bring the car around stripped of badges murdered out in fields pima desert cotton chorusing a comfort of brotherhood sans sisterhood or brotherable things still the background would roll past the windshield interrupted by gracious marks migrating under no discernable hand I would step into the stall built up around the toilet I would bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as take the porcelain figurine attitude of the feminized masculine or the masculinized feminine punch line of my given type sitting on the toilet where there is no toilet reading the superficial estimations on holidays I would open a panel on my back to receive the carbon powder packed tight by a special implement and upon a flame turning at the long end of a safety match I would burn the powder inside with a share of flux drawing its impurities ashing it in reams of dense rope from my porcelain hole for those still looking and I would know by my intuition rope would collect in a spiral rising on this day when I would have an intuition finer by a day when you asked wheres my pink Barbie horse at the wiped counter in the kitchen is she pretty I thought of Mr. ...lights flashing and panorama painted of drum what does my pale sister want thy pale sister is named Adah laid soft upon your breast Adah would write well be concubines the maiden Laulerack explained where dust on the floor lifted on a breeze broken off its current upon the stand of eucalyptus outlines where their bodies were they filled with grayed leaves vertigo Adah would write what word there was to be said when the eyes of a dove led her to a clearing having darkened so many sidewalks animals get tired but dirt sparks in the traveling or I just want to be around you I just want to see us bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as in a pool shed write opportune your pale sister called to a party of white men a white woman is in danger so they were flushed toward soldiers ahead of startled men in the chiefs party who pierced Laulerack letting her fall upon Adah already in the wagon Adah would write I settled her dark curls touch she would say to white journalists who would write of the channel on Adahs thigh where a tomahawk grazed her while your dad banged at that door in the song I was wearing your colors to California coming to consciousness all heroines said where am I so consequently did I come to love them for twinning me while important reviewers amateur face sitters perch so far aside whiteness I cant even believe in the theorizing we offer them like reaching running toward and alighting from extraordinary points in sound and space creates new pathways to a future for sophisticates who decipher semantic crosscurrents of despair and a brief tearing at the veil of racial division makes a frontier where desire is improvised through and across coursing histotextuality a method marginalized writers use to braid historical allusions that contextualize and radicalize their work by countering the putatively innocuous generic codes they seem to have endorsed a site of self making for bodies in the cultural imaginary singing an anthem of simultaneity in a continuous space of renewal that repeats dissonance and lack of closure as a strategy of performative rigorously oppositional identity production or as a predicament bodies find themselves in whose momentary solutions we call dance imitating with a vengeance calling attention to the masquerade against the progressive ideology of the panorama wholl ride into a future slipping into and out of the white parts of men trying to save women and the world putatively bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as exposed to meet the lubricious demands of the male spectator and yet always confoundingly and performatively surplus negotiating and traversing astride the very moment of exposure I would sit naked and would write and by my means I would sit to write and would leave my shoes open near the window given to its wasteful passing knowing the tugging at my door was the wind pushing out as I would stage it flying into dissolution and that if the bigger house came next Id have our man bring the car around stripped of badges murdered out in fields pima desert cotton chorusing a comfort of brotherhood sans sisterhood or brotherable things still the background would roll past the windshield interrupted by gracious marks migrating under no discernable hand I would step into the stall built up around the toilet I would bound folds sumptuous in exposed skin hose white legs her on feet pretty heros A .outline own its into running horse real this of back the on freight as take the porcelain figurine attitude of the feminized masculine or the masculinized feminine punch line of my given type sitting on the toilet where there is no toilet reading the superficial estimations on holidays I would open a panel on my back to receive the carbon powder packed tight by a special implement and upon a flame turning at the long end of a safety match I would burn the powder inside with a share of flux drawing its impurities ashing it in reams of dense rope from my porcelain hole for those still looking and I would know by my intuition rope would collect in a spiral rising on this day when I would have an intuition finer by a day when you asked wheres my pink Barbie horse at the wiped counter in the kitchen is she pretty I thought of Mr.