I used to write poems. When I was young and soaked in naivete I had a beauty. There is still a flower that beats in my heart but I forget about it for many months at a time. There was a time when I was made of you all, and you were younger, and the petals I was made of were tauter and tighter and more pungent. There was a time before I was 25 I controlled my neurochemistry so tightly with nicotine, and I heard out many of my own ideas. These days I hear the tiny tree inside of my acorns struggling to get out, and I can do as I always did and throw alcohol on the flame. Last night I was very drunk and I realized I had become split in two: the old liberal artist me and the new communist me. And looking around the bar I could switch eyeglasses and see either a sea of apolitical middle-class liberals or a sea of self-artistry of a great diversity of skill. I want to cross my eyes and bring them into one focus.

I see the wild onions blooming in the field across from me. Their flowers grow into their own roots, and they are so rife that new wild onions start to grow from their flowers. I once saw a three-turns fractal of a wild onion, flower become new plant bloomed into a flower become new plant bloomed into a flower.

When I have a crush, no, it’s not just sexual. I want to bring my idealized crush into such a tiny emotional space that all the beauty I see precipitating on their person, to squeeze it out and run through a field of their crystallized beauty like through a field of wheat under a blue blue Nebraska sky. I want to fall in love for a thousand years with no pain in a utopia with them and the beauty I see growing on/as them, delight in them like I delight in me, like discovering I have a new talent but the talent can speak, the talent cures loneliness.

The liberalism I have forsaken does contain the aesthetics that our communism must also have. It does contain the reverence our communism must have at its core. Communism does need a spirituality. Humynity is never without a spirituality. I want to rush across a field to my new love, two faces so distant but with an immistakeable expression where we know one another by the sign of the exact same flavor of sardonicness. Two trees that are one another’s soil. Their compost is my flowers, and I taste the flowers most deeply in the eating of their waste.

If there is anyone who ever speaks of me as a writer, they will call me a psychological prude. And I am sorry that it is that way, but it is true. I haven’t learned how to doubt a puritanism I constantly inhaled during my formative years. I was never the all-flowering. I could never taste my own pollen except in its spiciness, in its fillingness, in its caloric content. I could never _taste_ it. I could never trip or flow on it in itself. I could only taste the abstraction of it, and that struck me like a statue, all form and no flavor.

I was black powder with no colorant chemical. I was all heat, I was all Scoville. I was excited when I saw you with a self, I saw you with your own agenda. I saw you exist without me. I saw you breaking the rocks of a raw world. I saw you feeling every tear from both eyes. I saw your pain be a soil and be the rain in which you could grow. I saw in your every movement a new metaverse of metaverses. I saw something I hadn’t ever tasted. You were my nostalgia each time I saw you. I longed to have grown old with you, I longed to see the world you were made for. I longed for the society of chords that composed you. I longed and longed each time. I saw you be your own wishes; I saw you move instead of hope, shift like a sprinter into a new thing instead of growing in any way stale. I saw you, stranger, I saw you, I saw you in your quicksilver, I saw you in you, a molten mirror, I wanted to be you and be with you in being you. I wanted the ride, I wanted to be the ride with you. I wanted to make everyone into you with the words I am now writing. I wanted to be your Wikipedia entry, I wanted to be your “Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock,” I wanted to be the Gainesville heat you and I both live with. I wanted to find in you something that would last and last, two trees that would love each other so much that their love would break thermodynamics. I wanted to forget death in you while you overtook me and overtook time itself.

I wanted to make the revolution with you. I wanted to build a party of a new type with you. I wanted to meet you and hug you before and after our speeches. I wanted you to set me on fire. I wanted you to show me every flammable place in you so I would know them in me. I wanted you just once to hit me so hard I would shatter and become something utterly new. I want you to know you did hit me that hard.

I have met you. You help me be gay because you are on fire with being gay in the way I would be gay if society didn’t scare me out of it.

I have met you. You can’t settle down. Your tears are the gasoline and your mouth is the always smoldering coals.

I have heard you, you screamed the scream I would have, and did it so I never need to stop. You planted a scream with roots into the living earth and it never ends, and I can go and visit it and bow to it, and there is my voice, out of the spark that has floated from your fire.

I didn’t need nothin’ but you came. I didn’t need to be anything but here we are. I didn’t need to have any luck but I got all the breaks–they helped me become a communist in an era of social fascists. They helped me refuse to be a man in an age of overt transgender struggle.

But he told me to sing the love that has been singing. I looked him in the mirror just now. He said to live with the life of life. He said we were all the love of love. I wanted to sing my own pain when I heard that thing. I wanted to be the blossom that I specifically am when I heard that we are all the to blossom of blossoming, the to be of being.

I have wanted you all, always, and wanted everything, and most when you are taking off the masks you have been wearing. I never ever stopped dreaming even while I slept too deeply and sadly to remember my dreams. There is no communism and in fact no life without spirit, and there is no spirit or communism or life without you. I was nothing without you. I was not even the quiet. And I love you while I have anything to be or say that with.