To fight means to fight what you're doing

after Christophe Marchand-Kiss

In a moment, I'll be talking to you about gender. How it's all cut up, collaged, re-pasted with sticky tape to my man parts. But for the moment let's say something is cutting into my side— a metaphoric girdle. I am a building and I am music. Bones buckle under my weight. I cry a counterweight. Flowers are a certain color.

Now a confession: I'm a pedal-phile and I think authority comes in code. We hotel a hundred times. We motel a million times a million. Only one face stands photographed. Only one way to photosynthesize; one grand ocean.

My ego alters. Two or three things more rise up to eye level: branches, sickness, and a clearing. You make a glorious reflection. You make a thought. We are two trees.

From the hotel, the street signs are shadowed. We believe we believe too much. We advance into the high grass. We save a place among the hotel parking lots.