Sam Sax, Risk

how harrowing the paradox of latex. on one hand the paragon
of intimacy, on the other a glove like a father loved more in his
absence. my paramour, my minotaur, my matador flashing his red
sword. dear condemnation, i have read all the commentaries of raw,
how the forbidden fruit grows less sweet the more you gorge on
it. i’ve seen the formal debates where two gaping wounds stand
behind podiums + reach into each other’s mouths. discourse, its
own form of pleasure. pleasure at its most broken down,
a series of shapes. ethnographies bleed from the ivory tower,
the tower made of animal teeth. the distance between theory
+ practice is a slick laceration. it’s right there
in the name, unprotected, to be laid out before the animal in
him, to be defenseless
+ deforested. perhaps this works out better in myth:

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎he pilots my body across a waterbed
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎full of drowned fish. in the distance, women
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎sing us toward shore.

or perhaps, it’s best to end in images:

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎a handful of gravel, the open ground,
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎a groveling mouth, a grave half full of water
‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎with my body not in it yet.

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