Epic Poem Concerning the Poet’s Coming of Age as Attis, and: Sleeping with René Magritte

Epic Poem Concerning the Poet’s Coming of Age as Attis

I’m a boy, I’m a boyBut my ma won’t admit itI’m a boy, I’m a boyBut if I say I am, I get it

—The Who

1. A Brief Introduction to the Cold, Hard Truth

I like to watch the last scene of Easy Rider over and over, genuflecting before the tv in my parent’s room. I like to watch it

until the world dissembles like air after an apology. Shots from the car window. Burst of body and fire and metal. Then,

the long river that folds and folds like the house after a party. Card table and tv trays with wine stains on the presidents’ faces,

towels left in the yard. I make my father’s belt rack spin around. Please don’t fold me, the mouth says into the mirror.

2. Schemes of Domination

In school, they teach us about conquistadores, men who stepped ashore and said mine. Cortez could stare a king in the eye

and lie lie lie. We learn about explorers who slept under the stars with savages and snakes. Claimed the continent,

then left on their sissy ships for Spain. I would’ve stayed here. Fuck honor. I would’ve stayed here, speared

grizzly bears and kept three brown women. What is brave? Summer grapes deflate into raisins.

I jerk off on the school bus with my backpack across my lap. Right when I come, the bus driver glares

into the rearview mirror and shouts, No pushing and shoving back there!

3. Slaughterhouse—

what the gym teachers smile and say on rainy days when the field outside is washing away. I fold

my arms at the penalty line then run fast as I can across the parquet while football players who call

each other faggot fire rubber balls the color of scabs at my legs.

4. Beneath the Surface There are 1000 Tiny Explosions, Son

My father lifts the hood. We stare, my brother and I, at a world of wires and the lesson he gives means we’re

almost men. With a twig, he points out the parts. Radiator. Carburetor. The words slam around inside our mouths

and everything—the oil stains on his hands, my mother calling from the kitchen window, Lynard Skynard singing about how to be

a simple man—everything comes crashing down when we say the right words. He closes the hood. Beneath it, a named world.

5. Family Romance that Ends with the Suspension of Habeas Corpus

My father pushes his plate to the center of the table. My sister and mother clear while my brother slumps in his chair

like Hank Williams. I sneak upstairs into my sister’s room, crouch in the closet. There are roller skates, too many pairs of shoes,

the smell of school. She walks in and slips a pink sweater over her head. She is as beautiful as Nepal, as all of my secrets.

Every night, I watch her; my sister touching her tits in front of the mirror to see if they’ve grown. My ass hurts from her heels.

Why do I watch her? Worship is the word my mother used once. That was before. One night, they catch me. It’s funny, really—

my father beating me for wanting to fuck my sister. He cannot say, Son, I know youwant to fuck your sister. After this, I look

at naked magazines. But, every night before I fall asleep, I see her. My love stuck inside the body of my sister, curled like smoke

from a bashful chimney. My beautiful girl waiting, wanting me. She doesn’t know yet the shape of my face in the dark.

6. Etymology

For a while, I like how words open and close inside my mouth. Scabs in crook of knee, crook of elbow. They break open when I’ve

forgotten about them. Brave and red, made of what we hide. Words bleeding out...