Poems to Waxman S2, E2

Today, a special ‘fuck you’ to the one who promised me I was more sophisticated than my tastes. Who swore to me, up and down, it was better to describe a work of art than to love it. I love this song. I love it. I love it so much, I want to spread my legs over it and fuck it until we are both so done we cannot move and we collapse laughing onto the picnic blanket.

I do not want to describe it. I do not want to take it apart like machinery, this lush melody, this subtle drum sequence, his ethereal voice. It is not a machine. I just want to feel it.

That one said, “Your work is not art. Let us remember that your work is not art.”

I sip thoughtfully on my minty-minty green tea. I chew through the scar on the bottom of my tongue in thought. I think so hard about it that I come out the other side and I am back in the woods, fucking this song to your heartbeat.

Joy, that’s what I feel. Tucked away from the judgmental gazes of the fathers and sons of the world, where there is only witchcraft and this song and the meeting of the two. Wish I could get that one to see, it doesn’t have to be good to heal. Scars are sometimes messy, lumps of things. They are seams, bridges. They are also just tissue. Both things can be true.

I saw my hawk-daughter-God today. It is the third day I have seen her in a row. We nodded to each other in the blinding sunlight, in the blinding reflection of the sunlight on the water. These days I gorge myself on sunlight, on bird sightings, on good music. These days I go back for seconds, and thirds. These days I eat until I am full.