Scientists Don’t Know Shit & This Is Real Because We Feel It Defying time and space, all things real according to scientists we soar through the expanse comprised of moments, locations, matter, and possibility Your left hand loosely positioned on my right knee conducts the matter of me: pushing and pushing and pulling and pulling and imagining and reimagining what the future-that-doesn’t-exist might hold if only… Tonight which is real according to the proof of your breath entering my own, I hold you sweetly and also painfully Aware of the hold impermanence has on all that matters Actual or not, we feel it: that push and pull and imagining and reimagining The animal soft of your bed guiding your left hand to the thick of my darkness Right or not, we know it: time and space and all the things we don’t pretend to understand were changed by the reflection of possibility in your eyes Exist with me here and now and if we never exist in that future, I still know that this is real because we feel it Your left hand conducting the matter of me made right in the animal soft of your bed, the darkness of possibility, the validity of this moment, your eyes and time and space And according to me scientists don’t know shit except how to stretch a theory across the reality of feeling We feel it: the possibility of all that matters or will matter This matter: me holding you tonight And I am not a scientist so here I go knowing, feeling, reeling, timing the space this moment will travel with me Tonight, I am 63 years old again I am defying time I am taking my last breath I am recounting all the moments that ever mattered I am back in tonight I am holding you conducting me I am real I am possibility I am matter I am defying space I am 63 I am 33 I am in the animal soft of your bed I am taking my last breath I am defying all things scientists say are real I am breathing into the animal soft of your possibility I am holding you conducting me I am real I am May There Only Be Sky after “Sonnet XI” -Pablo Neruda Dropped into delusion acutely aware of your creature absence I strip the bedding, seeking proof before I pace the streets carrying your scent from my jowls Around my ankles, chains of devotion strike against themselves marking each step Hungry and feral I lunge at shadows flinch at air Sniffing for your afterglow I cringe at my appetite its pathetic need for proximity Your laughter fills twilight My own ears’ deception bringing this tired heart to its knees I turn for my den that dreary place of vacancy Maybe you too hungered through your day for my skin in your mouth my song in your ears At this moment might you be retracing each of my measured movements longing for my hot mouth the throbbing beat of my heart slamming against the cage of your own? Your animal rustle wakes me from slumber and I find myself in your arms that sturdy place I journeyed through night for I sigh with relief at your presence relaxing into your hold My eyes shift from your hands to the ceiling and find instead, there is only sky Shuck It after “Queer Miracle” - Tiana Clark In Oregon they spread aggressively repetitious vines blanketed in brittle thorns attaching themselves to pelage, clothes, those getting too close Fruits of misfortune sprouting after life-altering loss choosing to scatter bits of courage like seedlings for hope: blackberries blackberries blackberries. I chose risk to start over somewhere new eventually, you queer miracle shucked from oyster repeating in every color each sound endless mornings the softness, newness container of connection a vessel-spilling-rainbows painting over recall what once was stale greys shallow yellows in lustrous hues Why mention rainbows again if only for the sake of honoring storms that came before? Why mention your eyes unless to say I no longer quell my desire to be seen in them? Their reflection - that pearl, iridescent already shines back all rainbows. xo Golden Shovel after “Twenty-One Love Poems VIII” - Adrienne Rich I am writing you a postcard: I wish you were here! Scrawled in desire, in want. I am recalling the ways we love: mouth to mouth, eyes seeking confirmation. Each time you go a piece left behind. My breath catching on frequencies still mutating and from somewhere your whisper reaches me. Here is where I wish to be: with you. So even without, I am. With. You. How I wish you were here! Limbs fighting, fingers asking, finally submitting to the testaments found in temptation. I am writing you a postcard; the only way I know to tell you that to love you is to make true a thousand dreams webbed of hunger. A postcard to say, I would happily make a career of offering myself to you, of filling with pleasure the hollows of your pain. What, of this Chaos, is Mine? three quarters in palm transfer index to sleek: C / 3 mechanical whir of rotation packaged disarray tumbled to floor to fingers to be opened there is a beacon within the babel hard to claim if not purchased coins for the queer the singular buzzed and bouncing wall to wall there is fervor to be relished in the in-between the non-belonging spaces where the discarded linger awaiting endorsement is synonymous with disapproval which looks like denunciation which feels like freedom which translates to power & so i buy it the in-between the non-belonging spaces where the discarded linger awaiting endorsement
i endorse the discarded the chaos what is mine take coins for the queer & relish in the fervor of what is mine what is now this power in being discarded
About the author:
Cee Chávez (they/them) is no longer interested in writing bios that reduce them to the identities they hold, their previous publications, their highest level of education, or the work they participate in for monetary compensation. The accolades they are proudest of exist in the love they have cultivated and are continuously surrounded by, which cannot be adequately conveyed in 100 words or less.
Photo by Robert Katzki on Unsplash