What an indulgence it would be
to smell the pheromonal scented breath
of anyone but mine own!

Like a sweet, sick smelling book
whose spine I’ve just cracked in embrace
and lets out a mealy, orgastic, dusted mutter
at the feel of being opened up once again.






































Next to a vineyard in the West Bank, there is a Legousia flower and it is
blooming today and from its ovule is born a breath. It follows the ridge of
the Judean mountains and kisses the neck and down to the navel. The
breath travels in the cold air of the atmosphere, the briskness provided by
our disappearance, this journey can only be made when there is silence.
Not quiet, but the rarefied impossible stillness in silence. The totally
encompassed absence where there is no noise and the surrounding
molecules have taken a pause. We allow them the brief moment of respite
although we are no longer able to throw a voice and have it bounce off the
sawtooth rocks of a cliffside, there is not even a throat to find withered or
dried. These are the only conditions in which the breath can make the
journey: rivers must briefly sit still so that the breath does not get lost nor
engulfed, so that it can tumble along the surface. The moon must give the
tides a rest for the acrobatics of genesis. And so travels the breath,
3,160km to the gurgling gaseous pit of a deserted loin, slips in, and
releases an exhalation, a hum that vibrates the walls of Her gut. The soft
palette lifts and the moan fills the space that had previously been left
empty, the sound boils over, brimming with the quiver of her sex:

And from the breath, a baby is born!
























I was having a conversation with a friend where I was trying to detangle thoughts about the seeming impending insurrection against the governance of our self-control, delimitations of l0v3, the perimeters or parameters of imaginable interrelation (socio-spatio-corporeo etc) and she said something to the effect of:

“I wonder if we sounded this optimistic during, like, the war in Iraq.”

And I was like… Well, I’m certain you didn’t...
Because in the invisibility, the total permeability where we’re all susceptible to the penetration, there is something that looks a lot like unprecedented commonality in weakness: we are but only sheep herded for unusual slaughter or feeble wandering deer dying in the warmth of the day! Obviously, some people have fortified social or physical defenses, but this is not wartime solidarity. This is the kind of frenzied, sexy, horny, pan-ic solidarity that you see in horror films or alien invasion movies. I have heard people refer to the new conditions as surreal, but at times this is further from real than surreality… it is fantastic monstrosity altogether and yet (in Joe’s coronavirus scented words), more real than ever.

So, this is my proposal for a romancing of the virus. A voyage into the sensual, eroticization, the aesthetics, affect, sexiness, horniness of the virus or illness.
























Now is a time for the saccharine,
Indulgences like the yearning
For a tree to blossom and
Sprout its sugar in order to
Reassure one of another year
To be lived in an ecosystem
That this tree outside of my window
Will continue to deliver to its god,
Its big, big organism.

An indulgence like sharing a coke
or a bagel with sugary nut spread
With you and everyone else.

Never have I felt so sweet,
That’s alright


























“The DOW has rallied more than 9% today,”
I whisper to the dust on the petal
because I think even it has a right to know.

Noon and now I’ll orchestrate that crunchy sonic distance:
The symphonics and symmetry

of I of I of I of
with you with you with you with
out out out out out

Families of composers reorganizing whatever hush is left,
Economists economizing economies of thoughts,
We’ve lost the land but the land is verbal

“The DOW has rallied more than 9% today,”
the dust on the petal whispers to me


































A panic kiss
in a slow, dormant light
Mmm…
Flicker! Patter, praise,
permeate the Womb and
locate the solace and,

Loss is slow.

Endure and rejoice,

Hark! Report message:

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!





















The woman in front of me in line at the key food turns to me and says

“If life is like this forever…”

And I’m urged towards the scalding, already charred wilderness of what? And then what? Will you scream? Will you rip your heart out of your chest? Where will we resort?

Instead I hear dribble out of me the soft cotton folding of “I know,” gesturing towards the distance between us. Our conversation ends just short of my saying,

It will not be like this forever





























ACTION REQUIRED!

Fiona sits on my bed and I show her videos of my thrashing:

Clumsilily wilty,
she says wow (this is great,) wow, oh! wow!
People sometimes smell sweet like they know that they’re meant to, so
genie, please, let me swish in a bottled vanilla musk that singes the schnoz like
sweat droplets of sliced squash.
But my fingers smell like garlic, clams
“quarantine diarrheas,”
and the symptom of my germing, yeasting, loafing
I am a flimsy piece of technology that needs repair!
Tinker by touch and and conquest,
Crack me open like a dusted book
So that I can let out that big, feverish, mealy mutter
Of orgastic sigh.

I’m playing doctor with you people! I’m flirting with you! I’m in love with you! I’m playing house with you! My melted plastic housing has seeped in my great, big, gassy pores.

Doctor Fiona says wow! Wow, (this is really great!)

And what think you?