UN JOUR JE MOURRAI, ET TOUT CA NE SERA RIEN IMPORTANTE.

in the bellies of tiny animals, i will live joyously. i will - to not be. gender is subjective, subjunctive, is subterranean and hidden in alcoves of human sickness, raving privately the hunger for conditionless love. and love is the deep cider smell of autumn, heavy in splintered wooden barrels. imperfectly grammar weaves little threads onto spools, burgundy threads running out between teeth, cotton churning over a loom where a woman bends a birdlike neck in the dusty heat, the speckled air in the shine from the windowlight.

back then woman was woman and man was man. breasts perfectly perched hips rolling and rising with the tide, arms legs thighs plump dress swinging down to the ankles, eyelet and serene. men in tall tall black tophats.

[kyle was an anomaly]. anomie, strain theory. he didn't have to bind his chest because what little breasts nature had given were so easily hidden. compressed beneath the generous mouth of an ace bandage. not eating was an easy option because he smoked somany cigarettes and lived with exorbitantly skinny roommates in a dingy apartment. the wretched, gin soaked, riveted, wretched. his immediate roommate played bass. his name was arthur, old fashioned, big shouldered.

fags & dyyyyykes, faggots faggots faggots. someone snorted coke in the living room everything green, the walls sheathed with that mucus colored licked over animalistic childish light from naked bulbs, promiscuous bulbs flashing the scene over the glass coffee table. Kyle would take nothing harder than ecstasy. he needed to know that his heart would continue beating. his hipbones jutted and knees became knobbled, wrists furious, ankles bleeding from the constant strain of his shoes.

beneath black boxers a pussy. how horrid. weaker sex. barefoot && pregnant. gitback in the ketchen. cast iron skillets flying the stove ablaze. bitches and hoooooos. kyle bit the inside of his wrists and bit and bit until a coworker asked what the fuck was wrong. he worked for a living - someone had to. pay the rent, the hot water, the electric bill. they ate vegan and took acid and stared at the yellowed old walls. the chips in the paint opened up and tv pundits howled, screamed, mumbled in tongues.

and then someday he'd find this and that and be happy with himself. hormone therapy. Leah, Adrianna, home and hope and the heat of minivans and 2 1/2 children white picketed suburban, the huge sun bawling, the endless pavement. life is endless. one day death with will be whole and his thighs will be perfect. and this - and this - and I I I I