I could have been a woman or I could have been a DJ
in one of those Soho clubs, they’d have called
after me DJ Pussy rules, but I was
for a moment a net bag of tomatoes, carried
just above the ground so I bumped the ankles
of slim guys and rubbed against the stockings
of holier-than-thou old women watched by
a surprised brother cockroach and sister shred of newspaper.
There was something bold in guessing
the meanings or in rucks over beer
when it just came down to: whoever
has the biggest dick is right – I still don’t know?
Childish things were put aside, what you didn’t know
you still don’t. Here’s the thing, simpler than any word:
a hole in a shoe, dirty socks, the lady behind the counter
with a heavy period.
All questions of sex, spears
marigolds, nasturtiums, hyssop, and how it connects
with the train being late, no logic but a divine sound,
inside which: mysticism, man, fuck it.
I’m what I read from a look or a touch
an erstwhile Tiresias, soothsayer and hermaphrodite
but it’s over, dearest. Now I eat dust
and drink bread.