Writing / Poetry / Performance Texts

Invoice #29, 2011

Sometimes other people are right about your health or your fears. When I woke up three days ago I had noticed a small incision at the bottom of my chin; almost as if something had come out in a vertical fashion. I stayed elated in my bed for a while thinking about the pain that continued to reside and the way in which my chin could have held or birthed something. I put my finger against it and could feel the incision transitioning backwards to connect within the space beneath my gums, through the connective tissue separating and forming a lip. When I got out of bed, I moved forward into the bathroom where I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair had not been this long since I was a teenager.

I inherited catastrophic behavior from my mother, and since a lot of my time is spent dealing with my face and having other gazes, I stepped coarsely off my errand schedule to address the disparity that I had forced upon myself. My feet clenched the rubber mat as I pushed through the rotating door. I caught a glance in the mirror– I was wearing a doubtfit, and forgot all my bobby pins at home. My nails had grown exponentially from the supplements I had began last week. When I dropped my arms into my black purse, I snagged my index finger against my pashmina scarf which shocked into a radiating zing, up through my bicep and into my neck. It almost felt as though the broken nail had directly linked to the nerves just beneath my chin. My tongue summersaulted forward to discover a metallic sensation. As I built awareness of the protrusions shifting their shapes and densities, an almost synchronized a graduation into frenetic posture slipped into my legs. I coughed to wake myself from the sensation and took a deep breath, walking briskly to the front desk of the Duane Reade.

“Excuse me, can I please get the key to the restroom?”

I began visualizing the Anicent Tibetan Medical Illustrations I had seen at The Museum of Natural History. The effort and precision placed into the line quality and color choices seemed increasingly easy to utilize as a method to understand my physicality and ailments. My eyes addressed my gaping mouth as my thumb and index finger stretched down my bottom lip, revealing irritation. It almost felt as though my chin was altering it’s shape, or developing a new bone beneath it’s centre. My mind illustrated the microbiological filth on my fingers. I walked outside silently with my mouth shut tight.

Right as it began to rain in the Floral District of Manhattan, I found a glass alcove in between an alley and two large metallic stairwells. I sat down with my journal and wrote a poem:

Tape it before it resents you

As if almost always she has done fair jobs of re-representing your femininity

Dawn on the other spaces that adhere you

Forge liberties in your birthright, the ridges of your bronzer and concealer

Push through foil, exclaimer ain’t back

I like you, but I don’t see past the virility you mistook for my personality

Next time the bees come to sting,

I can walk faster then any hatred that comes by my way

Next time the fire goes out

I’m walking away from that drawing like a forceps

Next time I get cerebral palsy

I won’t have a foreskin to berate the nihilist force of scandalous strategy

Videotape it before it resents you

It wont follow you to sleep without proper quotation

Before the Ha Ha mis-takes you for a iconoclastic mechanism

Show him your interpretations

Show him the tip of the chain that you broke

Carry a ginger knife with you for your insecurities, to site your resources when you have none

A woman’s face is painted by nature

But things just ain’t moving to heal the cruxes.

Ultimately, it’s a compelling reversal of accepted ideas.

I bought some vitamin water and realized my breasts had grown at least a full cup size since I last was in Walgreens. The eldest woman working there could hardly spot me while I reached to the top shelf in the Pharmaceutical Aisle. I slipped and a huge bottle of Robitussin fell and hit hard against my chin. I dismounted the milk-crate and my three fingertips dispersed a teaspoon of blood. My pacing increased intermittently when I answered my cell phone that night, still bleeding a little bit. It was Carolyn calling to read me my horoscope.

“Something inside of you is about to come out.”

The next morning I woke up with a partial penis. I laughed a little at first, undulating my hips slightly as I felt the skeletal abstractions of my pelvis. I had remembered this endearing thematic sensibility from the week before when I dreamt of becoming a man. In my dream, my parents had sold their $400,000 condo to open up a Guns and Ammunition store slightly north of the Hamptons. I wore a Realtree® Print Freakum dress with Gun-Metal Jeffery Campbell wedges. My hair had been pulled into six braids with the largest folding over my forehead. When I entered in the store, I walked in slow motion to the echoing of lens flares and a thin layer of fog that traced beneath me and behind me. The glass counter-top in the back of the blue florescent-lit store was the FOREVER 21 Section, or XXI® as it was bedazzled on the lucite case. I hopped atop and I remember feeling a slightly different genitalia as my mounting completed. People mistook my cheerful faciality, but my deeper motives seemed to persevere though my eyes. People could see my discovery through the way my eyelids fluttered. Someone shouted something about breaking down the back door. I took a deep breath as I glanced back at the wall beneath me, I woke up.

One week later I was healed. I pierced my ears at Claires on the way to the airport, and realized two of my make-up brushes had been stolen out of my bag when I was in Walgreens. I dry-swallowed a Kolonopin as I strained to pull out my old leather bag with my extensions in it. Tonight I am going to Miami to meet with the Kardashian sisters. Khloe will be collaborating with me on a piece called “BLOOD SISTERS”, a audio-visual diptych illustrating the caustic paralysis and masculine staggery of the E! Hollywood Entertainment Network.



Caustic Aztec-follower trepidation

Remedial torrential paw

Capricious scathing calcification

Unbothered negligent tension

Air conditioned youth-quake of love

Omni-present hysterical botanist

Undervalued seniority sorority complex

Involuntary tri-coastal remembrance system

Inattentive taxonomy of Lycra

Incomplete vestige of low patronage

Perforated iconoclast financier job

Burning Peruvian chalice of hubris

Faux-alligator wristwatch implant

Genderless cornea adequacy

Ignorant arpeggios on fleece

Useless Patagonian software emblem

Not Allowed Vol #2, 2013-2015

Mistaken for a tame lesbian

Recalling gay boys dancing

A high heel without a slipper

On against the lame

Most fabrics oppress

The way Brian and Esther said

Every Size Mirror Is A Dictator

Fave section on. The. Oh….

If I jacked puff

If I seemed tough

If I read a book about being enough

You still wouldn’t buy me poetry

Pally a singer

Sicka this shit

Ain’t no Damn Santa Claus

Fake ass market jabroney shit

Sleepy axx gangsta shit

Alimony daydream slip singer da sling

A-knox b riddle Ya C me ?

Flip the bird

In my dreams

I’m throwing a peace sign

Walking twisted

Forward forearms

Forceps, firearms

Bias with self improvement

To enrich quality

In my gait and body hair

Envelop express mode

Guys shouting

But they’re kind

There’s no man here

The subject is sans

Attributes con dad

Plzen chest heather

Grey leather

If left to my imagination

Infatuation can flourish

I’d let train doors close

If he asked me somethin

Yo sunglasses

What can you teach me

Do you want to kiss

Handsome as a weapon

Handsome as in kill me

How many men felt ugly

Because they were


I’m late at night

Watching his legs

Collecting information about his thighs

Where denim cuts and folds

Often I think of right clothes

Or videos of biceps

Disjuncture upon folding

He opened his eyes

And someone else got on the train

He looks angry

My hair came down

No more braid

Now I refuse to look at him

Though I’m thinking a lot about thighs

If he gets off at my stop

Is he gay or not

His pants on my floor when I’m asleep

It’s getting crowded where he sits

I ask myself if this is creepy

His shirt seems barely pink

Waking up to the back of his neck

I don’t care if we have sex

Are my shorts too short

I wore a jockstrap all day to work

Almost yelled at a drunk woman

And explained Ferguson

If he gets off at my stop

I’ll pull back my hair

Hope I don’t get mugged


Night two

Train crush

I saw his Moscow head satrilite me

Dirty camo shorts and a Rolex

Serbian brow

Black tank top

A heavy shadow

Eyes closed, potentially sleeping

Could be a faggot

Spit on a dick and then stroke it

Left behind

If he looks at me again

Earlier the train platform

A Bruce Bauman dance together

Catching glimpses

Totally making this up

Totally creating honesty

Cordial diplomacy (Out!), 2009

Amy the slip queen bit some regal shit before amplifying the ratio of a gratify grove. In fact she cancels TV shows for a living, pissing off randos the way pancreatic cancers come onto dads unexpectedly in South Wales, in the deleted scenes of grey gardens where Angelica Houston bore a secret handy-note, calligraphy initiators slapping it up on the side of an ugly bitch train ( nonetheless, one I would never ride ). “Anything else need canceling?” Amy protrudes a vitality stick out of her cabin out of her skin out of her vague vague vagine, licking its brass edge before taking a soft nibble and swallowing it. She knows she’s having sea food later and those flavors will mesh. “If I could just write a god damn list one more time” she slumps in her basket, baked within a convex neoprene off-white canopy.

Her pen waits with aimlessness. Her publicist calls Italy. The phone rang. Her dog swallowed an earring. Aesop Rocky sold his China set gifted to him by Peggy Guggenheim after the second television series on “Futurist trans fiend Tay Stacker” debuted on Scandinavian public access television and re-enflamed the gravitational anxiety Amy associated with Darn Sally Files, a biopic discipline program released on government-issued authenticity topics relating to Gender studies professors who had moved onward into biotechnology. Amy bought the magazine that interviewed Tallis Greer, a name-sake fortune of identity politics linked back to the Aegis Flow, a p2p program from the vitality program that tracked cordial taxonomies of sexting into the New Tome Time frame.

Cis cape cod alimony members are traditionalists but that ain’t none of my business.



Although the grimacing stare of the lips taking note of my asshole impeded the grace of “seeing what is cool,” I relocated when I thought I was saying the right thing and took off all of my clothes a second time. I bought four things I could stick rendered video albeit my tongue for youYou watched it clearly like I do what I did, thinking mostly aboutfuckin images breakin all over my face. I mean BOY DONT YOU SESSION WITH ME PLEASE? Just want to smell the jizz, really (so much).

Settle on in it with my brow facing your chest. Her she is lowering like balls droppin all gay n shit, hey she is a horse fan hung like her own neckline tankini with a foreskin. You drop that line like that????

Damage a droppable statement, it is just like his hand made me orgasm on cell phone piss, high pitched and ready to fuck. Listen this relative has got many digits and follows the own synchronization of cussing new wave. Sick forgot it just to tell someone else to beat it through the tulle like I wouldn’t be naked over internet recource lil sis centaur….. h0.

Who kno dose girls gotta take it, what the fuck is her language doing without reference? Will my duckin dick know that shit? Well my gay whistle take like the lip pill pucker bee-queen? Howda scrotum lessens how gad damn bad I wanna put that cock back in my mouth, change the pitch and see serum, my shit, started to REALLY take may up.