if i was music, you could have played me, sightread
all the notes on the staff, followed my timing,
held melody and harmony in both your hands.
if i was a story you could have read me,
turning pages with delicate fingers and tracing
the arc of character development and denouement.
if i was a plant you could have grown me, if i was a dance
you could have moved with me, if i was anything tangible
or approachable you could have interpreted:
but like the spinning girl, like the generated art,
like pollock and joyce and all ethereal things
i gain traction only away from you, gain substance
only when tied to nothing, under no one's gaze.

If i lied, with my mouth and my tongue and my mind and my words, if i lied with my heart and my hopes and my dreams, who then could blame you, for your misgivings? And who could be blameless, in the end? If i lied, with my hands and my breasts and my throat, if i kept the truth in a grimy cell, encased in fear, entombed in doubt, if i lied, who could blame you for leaving? And who has abandoned who?

your hands, white keys, oh sell me melodies
demanding strict time, tempo.
preach in chromatics, steps and instructions,
directives in a crowd of atonal amorality.
how can i atone for my sins,
for my wanton abuse of the rules?
i am an ejection of the rudest sort, under your fingers,
which otherwise dance lightly up the board.
something you couldn't direct:
desire for minority, for difference, for distance.
sell me rhythm and pace, gift me
trials of methodical plodding to keep me on track.
on the tip-end of the metronome i sway,
waiting for easement, avoiding complexity.

the heat of me is obstinate, forcing itself
against my ribs and my tight-shut mouth, searching
for openings, for opportunity.
heat like sonar, measuring lengths and times, waiting
for words as they bubble up into
my brain, attaching itself
to the sentences as they swarm across my tongue.
the syllables come out red, fluid, angry,
sizzling with a fire i thought i had contained.
what i say then, much less than how i say it,
overshadowed by combustion
and the processes of molecular agitation:
burning with minuscule desires,
a hot heart pouring out with tempered articulation.