Just discovered (rediscovered?) this video from Albuquerque’s OUTSpoken Queer Poetry Slam & Open Mic back in 2011. I’m reading “Without speaking” (text follows).
At my only rave, 20 minutes of throbbing sound
before I found a plush chair and slept ’til someone lipped
my ear and I woke to Peter’s Pan-ish grin and slept again
’til Chloe said my name and we went home.
Another night, working Peter’s Ouija board
for the chance to touch his hand, I asked it—
without speaking—if I loved. Asking
a Ouija board to tell me my own
mind. N-O, it spelled, then, C-H-L-O-E.
Peter told me about the language he invented, because
we young things didn’t have enough trouble
communicating in just one. Later in the parking lot,
I locked my mouth over his before he could exhale,
a smoky kiss full of tobacco and tongue.
Then he turned back up the hill to his place
and I down the valley to mine. He was always running away.
I eased the door open and padded to my bed, at right angles
to Chloe’s. In the morning, she’d be angry I didn’t call
to tell her where I’d been. If I kissed her, she’d run, too.
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