No Intentions and 3 other poems

Burnt in the wake of restless dreams-
i reach towards the gaping abyss that is
queer love: we yearn for some pearl-laden
maiden to entrance and sing by rivers dawning
on a world gilding itself on hopes eternal. but
we were broken, so i
lay in beds soiled by fucking and disuse at daybreak:
“I have to catch the BART.”
Riding home where the morning sun meets scratched glass-
i can feel the shape of her mouth on mine-
its tenderness, the ripe spots of hurts like bruises incurred
by metonymies of love. i know the dark and hurt lovers, only seeking
moments of strange pleasure, reputable strangers who
half-pretend at stability, with self-ironic twists,
It takes practice to be able to do that.
and in the entropic waves of ending that characterize these
intercourses unprofound, i wonder if in the dimly-lit worlds of
shoddy apartment walls and play candles if
they see me as i see them, and if we are just engaged in a masturbatory
prolonging of yearning, of failing at that purity of that great storied
miracle that
is Queer Love. settling for fun, egged on by fat, mundane ecstasies and
that asymptote of love.

I had no one and nothing left–
no harms, no scars, no old lovers to spin
wan-flax tales about my failings, my vaunted memories, scarred
enemies waiting to take flight
at the moment of my departure.

I imagined then a cool lake where women go
to dip their toes into
lesbianism, the works, the antiquated wonders
of pearl-lite dolphins baring
broken teeth.

And I knew then of foxtail fields where
barbs spit and nibbled on your untamed toes,
where you kept on walking and walking, and the glancing heat threatens
to kill you, misunderstand you, but you are walking towards the blue oaks
shade, and a bird twitters in the ancient thunder of
plaster-white suburbia.

Retreat to me, avid lovers, readers of history and book-marked pages:
find me, and become me. Eat of me, that I may become life,
and glory, and love.

I am afraid to go home when the days grow cool and dark,
I am afraid to become one with the dust, dirt, and blessed
soil.

I am subterfuge and clay to you: but sand
Beneath penetrates the slits between
my fingers, and slats of light work
their way between rust-colored pebbles, the

foundations of moonstones. And fat speckles of moonlight,
adorn my fissures occasionally, making my
hollow body dance.

Moonfuck me,

she says, but (she lied to me again)
and I am contemplating the ways by which I
must unspool myself from her, like the extrications of beaded strands of
DNA, but my memory is tainted full of
love.

And I am desperate for her, and hungry for her–
I want to separate myself from her, unstick our shadows
that merge in the midst of veiled, green-struck nights.

She lives in Oakland, and is Oakland–

The song of that city, which rises by the morning ashes to fester
on gentrification, the rising works, of

the cops are prowling, for it is broad daylight
and the children walk too far
to school.

(Melissa Valentine never regrets to inform,)

I pick up loops of daisies and wildflowers–
I braid them together with the plastic necklaces that
adorn soda cans, I buy hot cheetos from a mother, I walk home
from the store.

she moves from the center of the world,
to move away, and away, and away.
And she is Oakland, great city, beloved city–
all of its cracks and pains and nuances–
like the spine of an old matriarch creaking to
assume her master, you hear her churn and regurgitate
old harms, flung at the sun-shocked asphalt
where glass glitters like moonstones in
the cooling wind-light.

and it hurts when she thrusts inside of me–
infinite pains and she threatens to let go,
like a stressed belief, that relief will come
if she just hurts and hurts and hurts
enough.

She is beaded curtains, a lark, a splash of rain-light
that comes from the smacking of broken fire
chains.

She wants to move away.

For she says that this city is no longer
her own, but it belongs to me, (me, me, me), she says:
foreign invaders, trickling in from suburbia and mystic
tunnels that pretend at graffiti and laughter. You, she says,
are not an artist, and you are hardly a lover either.

Become me. If you can threaten to be that
much. You come here to study, to learn, to take the anodyne of culture,
before moving to the Midwest, or Korea, or wherever the fuck
you people go. You came here to leave, like leaf shadows of the night,
and the least you could do
is pretend you love me,
tell me you care,
(eat my rent, eat my rent, eat my blessed rent)

before you deign to go

home.