I want you to feel ugly, too by Joe Nasta

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I want you to feel ugly, too Joe Nasta

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This book is dedicated to everyone who worships living poets, not just the dead ones.

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Table of Contents Power

Sierra

lust fragments

Alameda

Soho Grand

Capricorn

Alameda 2

I identify too much with Ingrid Goes West

Alameda 3

lust fragments

rage fragment

The Chrysanthemums

on Child Mental Health Diagnoses as a Mechanism for Abuse

When I first began to speak publicly about my dysfunctional family

Anthem

agender

(the gargoyle at the Hotel Sorrento finally closes its eyes)

lust fragments

rage fragment

Venus

Instagram isn’t a dating app, actually

Instagram is a dating app, actually

lust fragments

rage fragment

A Concept

Tuesday

A Little Life

Georgetown

Last Quarter

50 !v

lust fragments

Zeus

In Port Townsend I turn

Postscript to Lust

rage fragment

The Desire to be God

False Spring

How could I describe the ending to you?

lust fragments

rage fragment

Acknowledgements

Notes

Endnotes

III

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Power for Meaghan 1. When I remember it, my whole body tightens as if to say “no.” My sex doesn’t live inside this body. This moment has sent it out. I don’t remember. Often. I say it out loud to erase it, forget. Speaking is power. Speaking is just words. It is a word. My sex does not live in my body. This moment is often, remember. The sounds come out of my mouth disembodied. My whole body tightens then lets them go. I do not live inside this body. The creaky staircase I knew. Every step screams and I make them scream for me, hoping wake up and see. Speak. My body. My sex. The clink of pint glasses in the afternoon. I do not remember. I cried. Have you ever had sex with a man. The whir of the ceiling fan. My whole body tightens, as if. I say, “no.” I say No I say No I say I speak my body speaks my body remember it often I do not remember the afternoon the staircase the creaking steps I say No I say. When I remember it, my whole body tightens. When I really remember, I can’t breathe. In that moment, my sex was outside of my body. Do you know what it is to be empty. The crinkle of a plastic water bottle, thud on the dresser. It woke me when he turned on the fan. The curtains stirred. Speaking is speaking is speaking is I say I say I say my body tighten tight release my sex empty body creak the curtains screaming speak it is my body empty. This moment. I remember. I cry. I can’t. Do you know what it is?

2. When he put his tongue in my mouth I felt burning rubber. I said, “no, no.” He asked me, “why?” & I said, “your daughter—” in the next room my stepmother his blubber He told me to go downstairs, and I did.

3. The dining room table was set for a dinner we didn’t have. Decoration in too big houses. The dining rooms hardly get used. He told me to get on my knees. He said, “Well, put it in your mouth.” My mouth teeth gums clench in my throat my body tighten my body is release now empty. The inside of my elbow my foot soles my earlobes my kneecaps my body I speak I say I speak I say I speak I say is power is power too big houses, rooms he told me, the table set creak curtains the carpets wineglasses dark knees white white white briefs my body how do I say my body say no say my body speaks and your daughter who am I inside this my body empty speaking is power power power power I say I say I say. I was wearing white briefs. They became dirty when he touched me through them. My body. The room was dark enough to see red shame in the wine glasses of each place setting.

4. Alone. Alone. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. Quiet. The cricket sounds from the creek in our backyard creeping in through the window. It is dark. I am alone. I want to be alone and I want to be quiet. The sounds of quiet dark and alone the creek the yellow light my curtains whir the ceiling fan click click click alone the bed. The dresser. The tan carpet and grey walls alone so dark so quiet and alone the yellow light the rushing water runoff creek the water creek and cricket curtains so alone the carpet on my feet I sit pin straight on the bed and stare into the dark. My body does not shake it does not shake I do not shake my body is alone my body is below me I am in the ceiling fan the whir the click the creek outside my window creek the crickets yellow light alone I creep I creep I creep my body creaks the creek creaks my joints creak I wonder why I am I am I am I am I am I am alone my body sit in quiet dark alone I wonder why the creak creek creek creek yellow light the curtains in the wind the window closed the wind the ceiling fan click click click why I wonder where I went I went I went I went outside the yellow light so soft I creek the creak my body in the dark alone I wonder why I wonder why I wonder sit sit sit sit joints are fans are I are went so yellow wet and cold the rushing bed the grass is soft my bed I sit pin strait the carpet on my feet the window closed the curtains wind the ceiling fan click click click click the crickets creek the creak rush water grass the dark. The dark. The dark. I wonder when I wonder why I am the darkness. I am not inside my body is my body I am wind the window curtains whistle creak. My body is alone.

5. When I speak my whole body tightens. My sex is not inside my body. If you say it enough it will become true. If you say it twenty more times it stops making sense. If you play the scene in your head it becomes nothing. My body speaks, then releases. Can I know what it is, empty. The creak of each step. The whir of the ceiling fan. Glass clinking. The world. Speaking. No, I cannot. Remember.

Sierra Upside down palms flicker electric purple streets.1 We lie on our backs arm next to arm on tar one of us slightly more a secret selving, both of us silhouette fronds. Fame, beauty, lights. No, I’m only obsessed with what can hold this want. Invite my selves to vinyl booths and capture my glinting eyes just off from Snap2 our other eyes Another inverted cheeks Photograph: Invite ourselves to lie again together. Cold marble tile and gun metal convenient in the atrium, early afternoon. What will you kill to be me, someone no one realized has been gone.

lust fragments

Am I what you were expecting? 3 my rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose 4 garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden5 rose garden rose garden rose garden6 rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose7 garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden8 rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden9 rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden10 rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden rose garden—

1. They say only the good die young, and isn’t that right: I’m not a bad boy but I bought a leather jacket. I am still alive. Can you tell I’ll be whatever you want? It’s vintage from that thrift shop on First Avenue, you know the one with racks and racks of leather and denim. You asked me if it was but I shrugged and pretended not to know. I shrugged it off. It fell from my shoulders, it was too big for me so on your hardwood floor I made a pile of my things. I laid my back on white cotton and sighed. I reached my palms upturned towards the skin of your thighs. You squinted, spit on my chest my teeth opened wide, I said yes11 You again, asking “Why don’t you ever take off your pants?” As if in nothing but our pale skins we could give each other ourselves.

take off, take off—

2. You’ve never been to Honolulu. Let me take you in my mind. I’ll meet you at the airport, whip you straight downtown to show you everything: There is nothing here. There is nothing left. The ships across the water never move. The bay unfolds itself to the sun and sky. A highway runs between us on the empty streets and Aloha Tower, abandoned. We’ll pass ‘Iolani Palace boarded up in the blazing afternoon. The office buildings crumble down. No one living is around. The park has yellow grass under the heavy air. You want it to rain onto yr moist skin but it will never rain again. Turn your face to the left and look at me.

3. I daydream you inside me. Lana Del Rey bleeds in my ears, congeals as I steal words between yr lips with my swiping tongue: those words who are what I always was in my familiar way of being, in a way that takes the gyration of our bodies & transforms it— We come together towards this self portrait of two poets as the American Boy12, a self portrait of this two as one is us as you is him as me is us listening, is us talking with our elbows & toes & hip bones. All of this, for you. But then you are suddenly so full bodied. You crawl out of my mouth13 and my gums tear inside their broken jaw. Stern, your eyebrows flex to scream you little fucker!14 because somewhere in my love I'd lost you. I'd stolen your humanity. The music stops & in the sand I kneel by your black denim, begging for a chance to keep it.

4. I love this humid city thick with ghosts. Last night Emily and I walked the highway and I told her everything I knew about the city and the way it feels. She was staying in a resort the locals mock as “Fake Hawaii” and I am docked on a ship that doesn’t fit with the direction the island is trying to shift. She felt the eerieness, too, and was writing a poem about water, light and dark. Last year we were docked here for three months and I walked this stretch drunk at night along the bay15, listening to Lana del Rey and reading Arthur Rimbaud. I tried writing this poem but hid it all inside a dream, which is overplayed as a device in poems but easier than telling you the truth. I was lonely. I am lonely. I have always been. I’ve walked in the light and the dark and the water and in the thick streets filled with humid ghosts. I told Emily this city was powerful to me. It’s not as true as I wish it was. I trudged past the Kaka’ako cemetery and swore I saw tombstones of coral but this year I discovered they’re not there. I was obsessed. I am obsessed. I have always been. But it was never this city that held power, and it was never you. It was all of these words.

5. This poem started as an ode. No, a letter. This letter starts as a poem. No, as words. Hold them on yr tongue, puff out yr cheeks, swish them around. These words start and end in Honolulu but live as a dream. This poem lived once in New York. This poem has twelve tattoos and it got one while it was being written. This letter is a poem written to you, reader. It is written by you. This poem was written by Lana del Rey. This poem was written to Arthur Rimbaud. To James Franco. To no one. 16 This poem was never meant to be sent in the mail or in a direct message on Instagram but it got drunk, snapped a selfie, hit send. A picture of the flying pig tattoo under its sandal straps when you said you like feet and I’m not wearing any underwear. It smirks. This poem is a pulpy mouthful of words. Do you feel it seeping between yr teeth? Swallow it, now. Swallow.

Alameda I slept but I am exhausted Who do you think you are? A poem of Co-Star notes for the worst person in the Bay I’ve already forgotten completely about Ashton No need to pretend to be somebody else if I can commit to being diagnosed officially I cannot separate emotions from obsessions

Pressure

in sex and self The color is gold but life does not cease gold gold gold gold I don’t need to know why

Gold

it is a good moment

to think you fear losing17 someone

Soho Grand for Alison How am I only just now realizing what I am not and never will be? I’m just an acquaintance at this party in the SoHo Grand Hotel. The blonde French DJ bobs her head, jumps with the crowd under the Edison light bulbs. I watch the woman working. Tight bun. Tight black dress. Red lipstick. She scowls. She talks to the bartender. She does her rounds. She smiles. She scowls again. There is an enormous lamp in the corner whose shade looms over my head. I go to the bathroom to be alone. Marble tiles. The leaking faucet. The almost silence. A guy goes into a stall to douche. He sighs. His eyes in the door crack in the mirror. How am I only just now realizing? People do not dance with people they don't know. I overhear a conversation between two people who moved to NY together. They still don't know exactly how they got here but how could they? A man has lived in NY for ten years now but he still does not know. I want to yell at him, my nails digging into his leather jacket, my voice shimmering glitter and vibrating louder than the music: Know it! Say it! Tell me! I imagine being escorted out onto the Chinatown sidewalk already having forgotten why.

Capricorn Sometimes I feel that I am Channeling the powers of another Greater self I do not know, Have never and will never Know. In the morning I read One poem written by someone Great and wonder why Anyone cares about things, Goes to work, stops at the cafe To grab a cup with a lid, sucks Liquid and steam between their lips And into their empty mouths, swallowing. The warmth burrows down their throats And chests. No, it is not enough For me but I drink two mugs Of coffee a day as if it means Something, from a large mug That says CAPRICORN18 on it. Another small piece of me, that carIng, studied and stolen from someOne great. Arriving on time In the morning, another. Saying Hello and looking them In the eyes. Saying today— Today is a great, great day.

Alameda 2 I didn’t go back when I told you. I went to Alameda Saturday night, surprised. Pale pink lipstick, blue eyeliner, yellow, almost gold. I mean the way somebody’s skin glowed caught my attention across the street and I followed them. A seagull landing on a car strutted precociously. I forgot leaving you. Nothing happened in the end: I lost sight of the stranger. I don’t know why I lied.

I identify too much with Ingrid Goes West I’m so embarrassed but I can’t stop buying the house next to yours in Joshua Tree with the dregs of my mother’s death $$ after I stalked you through Instagram #relatable, am I right? I don’t know anyone in LA without a restraining order filed against them after they maced you at your own wedding I wasn’t even invited to, as if your one reply to my comment wasn’t a declaration of undying love. I haven’t even been to LA, but actually what more is there than a painting bought cheap from goodwill with #blessed ingeniously scrawled over it and sold for four thousand dollars? Or James Franco’s canvases19 of Spiderman, or the Facebook campus in Venice Beach, or melodramatic thirty-five-year-olds wearing black and bitching about the ocean? It’s not a joke. I don’t blame anyone for staying as far away from me as possible. I can’t control myself.

Alameda 3 I know where you’ re looking but my eyes are up here. Fuck. I want you to feel ugly, too. Steady talking /not talking/ busy with tinder feelings /anger, nothing to do. No object loneliness. I can write ugly poems. I am jealous of other people ‘s contentment. Has the weather been lovely? Doesn’t it all drag on & on? Our nameless desires, objectless /vague revenge. I will not touch you even if your hands curl around my neck. If my hips thrust, my lips are lying. You can’t read my expressions so don’t try. The heat, this humidity /my feelings have nothing to do with you except: I want. I won’t stop until you feel ugly, too.

lust fragments 6. Arthur, before I go on I must say: despite this poem I did not love you, stranger.20 I was obsessed with you. When I started this poem it was months before we met. Everybody asked Will you send it to him? No. I did not think to love you. I squirm inside impossible lust. Am I what you expected? No, but I never expected anything from you, to lay next to your body inside of my body. I was projecting, but so were you. We became inevitably masculine. Wanting feels tragic. I’m only speaking for myself. I’m using you as an object in this poem. I did project desire, fear, my past but so did you. I bound you up with ropes of tangled longing, but It’s not so cruel. We didn’t choose to live inside these bodies. I hate the ways they move. You know that I’m using the idea of you. I just want to tell you I’ve always fallen into the ideas of people. I am not ashamed. Don’t think my obsession makes you anything more than a man. You need to know I never wanted to love you.

7. When I was younger, only a few years ago, I couldn’t stop thinking about James Franco. Before I thought poetically before I knew what I wanted I couldn’t stop thinking. Not about him but about James Franco. He was an artist. It was all persona but what was I? I wanted him to scowl at me, and he did when I took a selfie outside Of Mice and Men.21 I didn’t say a word. I knew that one day I would marry the idea of him. He signed my copy of his book with a heart. See: I’ve always been more than a fan.22 I imagined him falling into hedges beside me, me stomping softly on his shell, slipping into his skin.

Outside Bowery Poetry, his reading with Frank Bidart, before I knew who that was before I knew any real things, an intern gave me a flower from him. I carried it all night. I saved it for years, that white rose. I buried my nose23 but I never did read his poems, not that I care about him anymore. I’m thinking, now, about you. You are the new James Franco.24

8. I tried thirteen bars to find one empty enough to write, and started going to Smith & Kings25 in Chinatown. It wasn’t busy on Tuesday nights with pop music played too loud. I worked best in loud places. Something to tune out. Something to watch, all the young and hip people moving to Honolulu and going to Smith & Kings for an afterwork drink. I liked making fun of them in my head but that tells you more about me, how bitter and afraid I was.

I met L. there, she was a server but on slow nights they let her tend the bar and we talked a little. I told her about you and the poem I was writing when the words were nothing but erotic scribblings that didn’t mean what I wanted them to mean. They were like masturbating, not like eating flesh and becoming more than want. I know now: poems are cannibal. I thought reading your poems was the same as having sex with you, putting your fleshy bits into my mouth, running my fingers firmly, gently down your spine, moving my lips deeper and deeper inside you, thirsting, lusting, knowing you in a way I had no right to. But maybe it was always my sex that consumed. I ate hearts. I stole everything from you. I gnawed you to the bone.

rage fragment I wish I could write anything about rage but I can only write about wanting things I will never have since things in the past can’t be changed or given back to anyone least of all me who already has so much but then I am lit uncontrollably and I rage I rage until I can’t remember why or how, or where I was going with my smoky breath and this poem. I wish I could write anything about rage, but I can’t so instead I am writing these unwieldy words. Maybe they’ll be about rage. Maybe it’s nothing. I am sitting alone and inevitable in the late afternoon at the top of the steps of the hill on Cherry Street where I like to sit, where I am sitting now, again alone and watching a containership drag itself across the bay that reminds me why I do sit here on the grey days: the water. I have written it before and I will now, again: the water. I can see it from the corner of every single block in this neighborhood and it makes me feel “less alone,” although, again, I am inevitably always. This may actually be the last time for a while. I am moving away from here in seven days. I want, I do, to be filled by this. Rage. But I don’t feel anything now, except “less alone.” Can I write and not feel “less alone?”

It seems I feel simply. Rage. But what can I say? I am not in a fit of it now. I am in the calm, the calm before. I swear I do feel rage. There’s so much and nothing left worth saying. Simply, I feel rage and it groans in my stomach like flame. I can’t hear anything else. So simple, and yet not at all. What else can I say? I am not feeling it now. I am not feeling I am not feeling. Inevitable. Inevitable. In even this moment, still. I know I feel this rage simply there is nothing closed or opening, breaking. There is nothing. There is nothing. I am sitting here what else is there to say? I rage. I rage so simply I slip in and out, and that ship hasn’t even crossed my sliver of vision. Too quick to follow. I am so tired of lust. I want this poem to be about rage. Is this a poem? This is a poem if I say it’s a poem. Is this a poem? It is if I say. Is this?

It is, It is. Poems don’t need to burst into flame. I want to write rain runoff, a downward sloping hill, words falling along the natural curve of Cherry Street and dousing themselves in Elliot Bay. Not every moment can burn. Some times pass indefinitely. I am unable to say how long one thought takes or how much of life is lost to slow thinking. How many minutes off my life lost like minutes for each cigarette or one too many well anything. Who has time to pay attention? Let me breathe and think. I’ve gotten good at absolutely nothing, at being nowhere. When I was younger my only hobby was sitting still. How to say, how to say still. I don’t have to explain anything to you. You know, you know but let me be. The concrete is coarse on my inner wrists, the edge of the step rounded. I do forget all of what the world feels like whenever I don’t want to be here any more but you do flame up

you I know life & words and now a gust of wind.

The Chrysanthemums for Rizzy I languish in rituals of being alone in public: I smile at the corner of a busy restaurant, I nod silently in the direction of a waitress, I stick my tongue out slightly at no one. Today I thought about the word floriography and secrets hidden in petals right under a nose. I twist the stems of my fingers in ways only I know. One flight of steps in Pioneer Square asks, “Why are you afraid?” while another pleads, “Be the reason why.”26

on Child Mental Health Diagnoses as a Mechanism for Abuse I’m not going to impress you with words or any command over them. Go, I said, and they sat lazy & obstinate on the page. I was not an obstinate child because I gave in too easily. I cried three or four times a day. I was not diagnosed with any childhood disorders because I preferred to sit very still and not make eye contact. My twin got all the diagnoses because she was more undeniable. I just let the words tell me what to do: “mild depression,” the psychiatrist said. I can’t imagine looking at a child and seeing “mild depression” but anyway how about an emo phase? 27

When I first began to speak publicly about my dysfunctional family28 I channeled the poetics of anarchy and wrote the same poem fifteen times. I don’t fucking care about writing “good poems” but I wrote fifteen times. I wasn’t making a point. I just bit my inside cheeks and mouth fifteen times. I didn’t count. I made the number up because of the sound fifteen times. I complained about some asshole I secretly love & after fifteen times it’s me, I’m the asshole complaining again in un-extraordinary ways, fantasizing about breaking something in my hands, un-extraordinary as I am in my rage whenever I fantasized someone un-extraordinary breaking me open in angry or lusty un-extraordinary feelings we all feel, rage we all feel in loneliness— I wrote the same damn poem about loneliness because I swore we all felt that loneliness but I see now it’s just me the asshole I have to be alone with. I’m the asshole I have to be alone with.

Anthem for Cea This morning, the light streaming through the window felt queer on my face. Or having these cheeks and nose and eyes did. Any face, or this one. Mine. The breeze on my toes sticking out from the blanket and the heat of my legs under the wool. Being in bed and inside of a body. Sweat stuck to the skin of my hips, my inner thighs, my scrotum: this all mine and me a body rising from unconsciousness as if that were natural. The sound of chirping birds was a song I did not write, but I listened. I woke up when the song hit me like light. The bird beaks pricked my skin. This morning, the light was queer when it hit me. I rose and left my body. I flew to the birds.

agender for Malia The terrace opened wide. Ze was no longer just a bird behind the clouds. Mid-afternoon ze landed in this shape. No time for flying. Zir wings glinted then dulled. Feathers filled the air. Zir whistling song, molt. Zir talons and fangs. More than just black feathers zir bones began to shift, but when ze landed in this shape ze did not become a man. Glinting, then dull feathers. The air is more a body than any shape talons fangs legs face. Bones shift and melt skin scales. Ze did not become a man. A coiled snake. More a body any shape, the smoggy morning and the dead of night. Legs and face could never hold. Ze folded as ze fell, transmogrify. Melt zir skin, scaled. They glinted dulled became the many balconies below the sun.

(the gargoyle at the Hotel Sorrento finally closes its eyes) for Bryce I’m lately blurring all these sunny afternoons: my gurgling sounds the same as drying up. A lost seagull paces my turrets, flaps her wings out of context, flies away. In the garden, the tables are marble, sparkling, round and the people who visit toast flutes of rosé. my drink settles into layers

Meanwhile,

purple then brown, but I spit it all out red. My mouth is a gutter of rain and blood. The boy who returned every spring, his fleshy hand waving, I remember. He is old now, or dead. Gone. I used to be like him, but I wished for too much, thinking I’d turn regal and stoic. Now I know these chipped wings are useless. My courtyard’s stones only age. I will never be human again.

lust fragments Darling Darling

Darling Darling

Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling29 Darling

Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling Darling

Darling Darling Darling Darling

Darling nothing 9. I imagined, unable to sleep Arthur as me as you as you punch my two front teeth and empty out my mouth but for yr needs and then you, as him, tell me: “you are not enough—

it doesn’t matter, though, cos I’m so young & in love

—don’t worry, baby30” it’s just enough to make me go crazy.

10. I swallowed and swallowed your words, your power over me. The first night I met L., me and G. sat at the end of the bar. She introduced us to Kona Hanalei, that sweet IPA that tastes best from the tap. I drank it on the mainland from the bottle and gagged. She said Smith & Kings only hired gorgeous people and that she didn’t realize until after she was one of them, these gorgeous people. She wore all black and a skirt only because she had to. When we left I scribbled on a napkin 31 Arthur Rimbaud’s wikipedia & my Instagram handle. I liked all the photos on your Instagram that night while I was drunk in bed, and the next morning you followed me back. I was hungover when I woke up. I hadn’t realized I was a person yet.

11. I dreamed we have an orgy in a mud pit James Franco as James Franco as two versions of himself32 in the muck that swim from the three of us & fuck themselves Arthur laughs, face pale under the moon. and then you cry with yr fist inside my mouth, you won’t kiss me & I know what you’re trying to say 33,

“anything not very good, I’m very interested in—

12. (Do you even remember that night? Strangely warm. Somehow I found myself in your bed and you asked questions that had no meanings and forgot the answers: the next time I saw you the same scowls the same questions even though you claimed to hate small talk. I guess asking someone if they’ve ever tried suiciding

or taken antipsychotics can be morbid small talk can be foreplay can be empty. Your brown eyes. You liked the cross earring I wore. I liked biting yr ears. You liked my eyes and I liked how tight your forehead was. I said you were a wolf when you said favorites were stupid, childish. So maybe I was a child and maybe my eyes are made from ice and I didn’t like the taste of your mouth. I said but yr a real person. You said but so are you? because of course I was. You pressed your fingers into my shoulders. My skin caved.)

13. My knees34 bend backwards, serenade him: The first man I let inside did not use his fists, but my mouth35 took his lashes anyway. It was oh, so sweet with my knees at his feet when I thought that it made me mean anything.

14. I didn’t like the taste of your mouth36 but I kissed you for a few hours. I sucked the life out of you. In the golden morning after I walked twenty blocks before I got on the subway, beaming.

15. my toes37 curl, tell him: “the first man I kissed poured me his emptiness, tasted like rubber & vodka & oranges. he took all of my dreams, turned me in-to something; like it’s magic I pretend that it’s wonderful” —somewhat interesting,”

Arthur laughs, face pale under the moon.

rage fragment The birds bother me because I can’t see them, their small noises. A joke on twitter is going around that when we hear their singing, say beautiful, those birds are only trying to fuck. What an urge, wanting things, to stay alive, to keep being alive, to make something out of ourselves: the birds smaller versions of birds and us, well, just a whole version. Fuck those birds and their chirping will to live. They bother me because I can’t see them but I can’t tune them out. The longer I sit here the louder the louder the birds get the louder the birds get sitting sitting still. And I’m so angry again at nothing. And it’s not the birds I’m mad at. You know, you know, you know. I want to make something out of ourself. I want to make something out of nothing, piece ourself together broken egg shell. Where’s the snake? Eat the yolk. If we find those birds their nest you’ll eat the yolk. Crack each egg smaller versions of birds smaller versions of birds. What an urge, destruction. Where does any urge come from? Living, creating, being alone, sitting, hillsides, the water. Where do the birds come from? Breaking breaking shells eating birds piec ing together wondering where did the bird go where did the bird go and when did they stop making their sounds?

It is good to not see them, then. I’ll just keep sitting and being bothered. Listening. Being present. Oh, in the tree there, the sun hit them. A blue one looks me in the eye to ask Isn’t it a beautiful day? and Wanna fuck, wanna fuck, wanna fuck? I stare at the point of his beak and answer, No, blue bird. No, I don’t but thank you for seeing me. And yes, what a beautiful day.

Venus for Erick I created something wretched And called it beautiful, then I went for a walk. I swear I’m not addicted to love. I’m addicted to Sagittarians falling Into it with me on Whatsapp or I’m addicted to calls at 11 PM From Sagittarians begging come out Dancing RIGHT NOW or I’m addicted To imagined love/hate relationships With Sagittarians or my so-called Sagittarian cusp, my Sagittarian Venus A Sag i tar ian moon at 25% Illumination I wrote a poem under, drunk In Honolulu on sharp grass, harsh light. It’s actually easier to say Dije you’re lovely Cuando quiero decir I feel love than Understand human emotion. I’d rather say I think about you A lot than I’m obsessed with ideas— Ok. I’m addicted to love but What else should I believe in?

Instagram isn’t a dating app, actually I wrote a poem & it’s bad & I love it Because I don’t write anything with the purpose of “good.” I know better than to expect anything “good” to come From my body. My cum has been watery lately Which doesn’t mean anything apparently, except I cum too much to have a potent sperm load Which is fine by me. Even though it’s watery This is too much information and this isn’t A poem for you, it’s for the strangers who sent me A picture of their dick on Instagram DM And the poet who called me a stud & pretended It wasn’t my body he wanted in his bed And the other poet who forgot the power of his Words once they left a page or an iPhone When now everything enters the air between mouths And some of us look at these words on a screen Or a photo on the internet thinking this person Wants me—We don’t. Fuck off, actually. My underwear selfies aren’t thirst traps but art Experiments about my daddy issues. 38 Let me post them in peace!

Instagram is a dating app, actually for Justin Believe it. Even the poem doesn’t have enough nuance. The problem with my experiment is that I do want Attention, obviously, if you couldn’t tell by this poem Which I wrote & immediately posted on the internet. I do want attention from men when I say I am not A man, I hate what it means to be a man And I deem myself “groundbreaking.” My body is not groundbreaking. The ground is breaking my body. If one more person tells me I’m mysterious, Mystical or whatever I will give them a blowjob With teeth because I can’t resist my own urges To hurt myself. Sometimes just saying the words Paris Hilton saves twenty-five pages of poems And I’ll admit my unmonetized Chaturbate stream Is a fetish. I want to be seen without being seen. Every like reminds me how much I need to prove.

lust fragments 16. Darling, Darling, Darling I hadn’t realized I was a person yet. You said you are, you are cos boy we’re gold, that golden morning. With you, I fall All alone, I fall

to pieces. like cherries in wine.

Oh, is it real? Is this real love? I am asking as someone you have never known & you just stay lined up letting it burn & all yr black beaches, my rose garden dreams— I just wanted too much: A touch, darling. I was obsessed. I always will be but I’ve run out of time.

17. I fantasized my teeth39 gaps are brown, and open open open-ing, I remind myself to floss & that it’s never too late to be who you want me to be but soon I clawed them into nothing; hey could you just lend me yr pliers please? I promise not to be a bummer, babe. Arthur never smiles. “I sort of become… enthralled by someone— I try to grin, but my gums40 shout through my curling lips41: “I taste a new man’s saltwater, let him push my head under, let my windpipe42 forget how to breathe —and continue”

I find out what he’s needing, & shape my ribcage43 to meet him, let my heart44 forget how to beat” —and continue”

and Arthur does not smile. I woke up with a cut on my left

thigh.45

rage fragment I mean, what is it with men thinking. I mean, what is it with men feeling entitled. I mean what is it with men thinking they own any body they want. So what, rejection? It can’t be, I can’t be you. I won’t be you. You, you. I write poems to you, hidden. I wrote twenty-eight pages addressed to somebody else but they weren’t really. I’m only ever writing to you, these pieces, teeth and nails bared I want, I want you say but no, stop wanting. I am not a man. But what if all I know is man? I want, I want. I mean, what is it with men & wanting but not knowing how? I am not a man. So what, rejection? It’s 2018 and I want to be a bird. I never lived inside this body. I did always stare into space. You know, you know and I know you’re only trying to protect me, these pieces. The skin of my wrists and my toe bones. I am hollow and you are strong. What is natural but coping. We vibrate, shaking our body apart. I’ll be honest again, we did nothing but sit in the dark and look out for years seeing nothing seeing nothing how did we survive how did we survive how as if we weren’t even

But what if all I know is not being not being sitting sitting still inevitable inevitable I don’t want hate I know you you my body me but I don’t see me in you any more (and the birds wanna fuck, wanna?) fuck I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sitting here, you’re sitting here. I am not a man. You are not a man. We are only the things we thought we should be. Let me write this now, we can be anything. Let me write this now, living is so much more than words. I am going to write this now for you, we never have to be angry again.

A Concept for Crystal I wish I was a real artist so I could live in LA. I love California as a concept, but I don’t have a driver’s license. I want to meditate for six days At a Catholic monastery in Big Sur. I want to hike the Coastal Trail North From Mexico to Oregon, but The rich and their beach houses. I’d have to trespass on public land. I want to be so entitled as San Diego Sleeping on the sand. San Diego you’re not fooling any one! I’d have to circumnavigate the Navy Base. Even just beginning I’d miss miles of the coast So what’s the point? Who owns anything Now, nothing's stopping me But the hills and those wire fences. Nobody owns the beach but the ocean And the joke is she’s taking it back, Inches & miles, nothing’s stopping her. When I’m a real artist I’ll move to LA. I’ll date someone funny like Brian Jordan Alvarez. I think I do love California, but The income taxes are too high. I want to be famous and industrious In a loft with sun, windows. I want to be glamorous and made Of steel & glass, but The unfortunate reality of flesh. I want to be as genuine as an iPhone Screen bigger than my face. Brian, would you go on a date with me If I was a condominium on the beach? How about a glimmering aluminum Can floating in with the tide? Or just cast me as an overflowIng garbage can, as long as you recycle! I’m always looking to be reused So slide in my DMs,

Nothing’s stopping you. If I was a real artist I’d live in LA. I’d flood rooms and smell like fish. What a concept California, but Soon your whole state will be underwater. Nothing belongs to anybody but The ocean. I’d say This is LA, bitch I’m taking it back I wish I was so entitled It’s what I deserve for all your shit But nothing we want matters. We are just beach trash I have finally arrived And what an honor To drown.

Tuesday for Dallin Gently vacant, the street littered with birds. I shouted but it was too early. No one was around. I walked the middle of the road. I’m embarrassed of things I say and how quickly I forget. Grey, as the wings scattered. Oh, he laughed, you are so young. I had to leave. What would I do, unafraid? The whole night neither of us slept. Oh, I am too many things. In the growing light I yawned, looked at myself from different angles. My body reminds me of something else.

A Little Life for Megan In spring, the flowers only bloom for a week or two in New York City but this autumn it was mostly seventy degrees. A different season for a different growth. Your hands were wrapped spread-fingered around my neck. You said I’m gonna kill you and I just laughed against your chest. The dark room, white furniture. You closed the window when the city night’s small noises woke you. Sheer curtains, lace laid flat against the glass. So do it, then. The air between the sheets. A lone cigarette rested on your wooden desk, parallel with the edge. Two custom chairs of satin, glowing, that we did not sit in. It was too warm for a comforter. You released me and just laughed, pressed your cheek into my collarbone. On Halloween evening the temperatures finally dropped.

Georgetown for Jasmine “I’m not great at speaking but I do love making sounds,” I remember in the florescent pinball lights and the flip flip din dinging he spoke under all of that noise and the taste of Rainier beer in the air, he whispered when I looked at myself in the glass, my eyes glowing teeth glinting. He said, “I’m ashamed.”

Last Quarter for Jettison Parking lot lights, high sodium in the dark night. I don’t know what I want but I’ll keep drinking. This song isn’t the mood for this poem but I’ll keep it on. I have only known two Sagittarians, is that called light pollution? I’m laying in the grass right after the sprinklers turned off, the grass next to the harbor. One texted “I’m gonna suck yr dick im gonna suck yr dick im gonna suck yr dick yr dick—“ I didn’t know what I wanted. Some moons I write tight little poems that don’t say anything but sound the way I feel. Today I’ll say my body doesn’t belong to you even if I let it. I’m going to lay on my back. The green in my shoulders and the evenly planted trees reach crookedly. Poems don’t tell you I was drinking when I wrote them but I am saying it now. I can see the clouds grey even though it’s much too late. The other messaged me on Instagram “I’d wanna give you head af” and I know to tell them I’m not interested. The inlet was dredged, the lawn cuts off suddenly. I don’t care. I can see some of the stars.

lust fragments 18. (Everyone knew I was a poet 46 before I did. I was the last to know. You said I wasn’t the poet type but what does that mean? A poet is just a person. Am I not a real person? I don’t care what you think or if you believe me saying This is a poem. I am a poet. This is mine. I made it from salt and blood. I made it out of rose petals and thin air. Everything I am I plucked and pruned and trimmed thorns from. Am I not a real person? I have stolen everything of myself from you, the world, the air above the ocean, 47 things people have said about me, songs on and off the radio. Nothing about me is natural except that I am a poet. I wrote about roses, lust, the colors pink & red. A classmate laughed about my man card. The teacher shook her head

but I never cared about being a man. I never cared about anything but ideas, the colors pink & red, lust. I wanted so much. My parents found a letter I’d written where I tried saying everything. It was torn up. Run away to New York and be a faggot poet, then. Go. The door opened. I couldn’t move. I wanted. Now I know I am just as real as everyone else. I know I will make everyone bleed with my words, briars but I don’t care what you think. I will never be sorry.)

19. No, you aren’t what I was expecting. I never thought to expect. I fell I fell I fell instead to pieces.

Zeus for Cass he touched me so I live to know how utterly indifferent they were in Sparta of an unremitting pleasure “I give them three weeks here,” that’s one point of view: without a doubt that it will come again, our parallel delirium, a new world that was Greek and great “—kind of foolish,” and now I’m different from before “he don’t look smart,” to the mirage we carry on “she’s got a nose of her own,” on to my dreamed-of paradise as if I breathed superior air, as no other has been illustrious it was a boundless place to me.

In Port Townsend I turn for Chris red. The slugs devour a dead bird, nutrients bleed onto the sidewalk and I groan too loud for public consumption. Fat brown tongues suck pink insides, something rips open our intestines like toenails, bloody pliers from the root. I giggle as the slime congeals. Stray slugs only move an inch.

Postscript to Lust I thought that the poem was finished but the poem is never—living keeps going —complete. I am back here again, I am thinking I texted you for no reason. Honolulu, I mean. How much a city changes and stays the same in two years. I was wrong, it does rain and nothing is crumbling yet. I am tired of writing to you because there was nothing. Lust. I am walking the docks again displaying obsessions in public. It really does look the same, the night sky but too familiar. We are leaving this place tomorrow for good and when will I be back? I am leaving you here. I am leaving this poem. I am always leaving. Once I asked if you’d ever seen the ocean 48 from the ocean, nowhere else. I knew you hadn’t. You tweeted taking a bath and texting a poet about the sea but writing vaguely about water on the internet is not knowing. Now I mistrust your small words and elusive poems. I don’t hate them, but I no longer love. Our bodies. Always using ourselves. I’m deciding. I won’t think of you from the horizon. I am closing my lips. The end only comes when we leave but you were right. It is always, always there.

rage fragment I’ve started using Grindr again for the first time in years. I used to call myself an addict and went to meetings but not for sex. For the feeling of falling into a body, not caring about them as much as they do about me. I’m an asshole. I’m only attracted to people if they’re wild about me and I imagine it. I imagine it wrong. (I’d be less honest if this poem were written to somebody else, but again I remind you dear reader, you live inside this body with me. Can you hear me? Is it you, better half? Are we the same?) I’m sitting here, we’re sitting here. That ship is gone finally from our sliver of the water and I don’t know what to look at. How beautiful today is despite the wind. I can look at anything. The weeds in the sidewalk cracks, the split in the white concrete, the mountains painted onto the pillars holding the highway up. But moving things are easier to focus on. I’ve spent too much time with my eyes roaming. That beige minivan, vomit-green Toyota Tacoma, mauve Honda Civic passing on the highway are too quick and people, well. I’ve already spent too much time watching people and here we are.

The Desire to be God for TJ November is the rainiest month. Four columns stand like fingers, fibrous branches. I feel a wet between my eyes from last night. The crosswalk takes too long to turn. Time pauses as if this all is all there is and ever will be, this moment. My mouth is filled with cotton, lips stuffed and stitched, cheeks impressed by the grubby fingers of the atmosphere. I reach towards the sky, extend each knuckle, rise up on tip toe crackling. I beg to be lightning. With the sky I am this moment but watches tick, arms move, faces fall. The white figure of the crossing signal beckons. Is it safe? I slide and almost fall in the middle of the street because the asphalt is too slick.

False Spring The rain came and is going so quickly. A hole in the awning above me, rusted through tin. I love the way it drips wet on my shoulder, tap tap on the roof and the stones in the garden. Remember sitting here reading a poem called Spring? Last year? Remember? I can’t stop remembering. I was having such a nice time in the rain but now it’s gone. I have thought too much about time and I am here again, and there and now and back then. And why did I love that poem so much? Because it was the simplest in the book. But I’ll sit here now in the sun again. I’ll walk the crumbling steps and dirt paths to admire the sculptures that haven’t yet changed. I’ve misremembered the title, a good sign. My tongue fizzes. I brought some rosé this year, so I’ll drink it. The grass is too thick. Anyway, at least here it will always be warm.

How could I describe the ending to you? for Brannon The sky opens, clouds part, but you cannot see the sun. It’s blocked by the clock tower of Union Station. You can take the train between two places with that same name but you can look up at the sun or a clock tower wondering, “When?” from almost anywhere. You are neither the first nor the last to be alone. Departing softly in the middle of the day nobody hears your footsteps between the splatters of the rain. Step on every orange leaf and every crack. Snap. The train will be here soon. You are not the first and you are not the last. Crinkle. No one has noticed. We all are just waiting, fallen leaves irregularly spaced along the sidewalk. Each of us will be you here alone next to the track. The treetops shake across the street. The clouds move with the wind. You hear the whistle as you throw your body forward.

lust fragments & all my black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches black beaches—

20. I was awake when the music stopped. but my body kept dancing: it whispered. This poem was never about you. This poem was never about Arthur Rimbaud. America is about finding a poet to worship. This poem is about you as me and me as him. This poem is about us all finally listening A poet always gets what he wants. to ourselves. Something personal buried itself inside this ode, inside our lives as recurring dream. When a poet has power, a reader has power. When a body has power, a mind does. When a poet tells you to take off your shirt, you do it and you kiss him. When a man texts you, he tells you you’ll have to be shirtless and my arms lift above my head, sing maybe pantsless too and my fingers untangle my belt, scream because a poet always gets what he wants. In this way of being that has become so familiar I can pretend that it’s what I really want. can you do that for me?

The music stopped. I knelt in the sand at his black denim always stuck inside this body, begging give me what I want. Somewhere in my love I did steal your humanity. We do have power in these bodies. When the music stopped, I kept dancing. Know now I am awake and I will not beg. I will keep it. I will keep it. I’m not asking for permission.

rage fragment I did ask too many questions, some about the universe. He answered almost all of them. He wanted to let go of being human to know everything. I texted I’m a fan of excruciating passion. I feel everything too strongly. No, you do. I’m not feeling anything so fuck yr feelings. I texted you FUCK it all. What if you messaged yrself on Grindr and I rejected you. What if I messaged myself on Grindr and you only wanted me to send nudes. What if we met on Grindr and decided we ‘d be better off inside each other, this same body, face & name. What if you were a headless torso and I messaged you hey, what would you say? Can I block you, even though you live inside my skull? I wish you’d blocked me, but we talked about the universe & you gave everything up to know how all of this works— Now me, I feel I feel I feel I say fuck yr feelings I don’t want I want I want to know everything but is it too late? I wish I could text you, myself, and tell you the truth. Nobody is thinking about you right now but me. We do text everyone who crosses our mind. Text back, “It’s nice to be thought of. It’s cold here.” I am thinking of people I don’t know. I am thinking of you, the parts of my brain I don’t want. I am thinking of lemon juice stinging the cuts in my mouth. I am digging in my teeth. Your answer never comes.

Who do I want to be? Who do I want to be?

Acknowledgements My original acknowledgements thanked all my teachers by name, but now they won’t. If you taught me even in a short internet workshop, thank you. Meaghan: I love you. Thanks for always fighting to protect me and continuing to be the strongest and most fierce person I know. This book and whatever “Joe Nasta” has become would not exist without you. Cass: Eat Yr Manhood! Thanks for reminding me that when the system is broken it’s our job to create radical community. Thanks for all the late Lake City nights we stayed up talking until I passed out with Jove on the couch, the long wandering walks at all hours, and your friendship. I’m honored to be beloved by you. Cea: Wow. I’ll keep saying it, honey! You’re my favorite poet. Thanks for showing me what true, nontoxic queer community is at AWP Portland! Thanks for your strength, honesty, compassion, joy and for leading me forward into endless possibility. Oh, and for your very important feedback on an early version of “Lust Fragments” hahaha. Rizzy: Thank you for being my platonic life partner for so many years. You have always been a rock to me even in my most difficult moments. Thank you for helping me learn that we can move forward and create our own family. I love you doge. Erick: You changed my life. Te amo papucho. Thanks to my supportive family, especially Jasmine Wornstaff, Kelsey Taylor, Chris Anderson, Malia Ruzzamenti, and Alison Griffith. Thank you to Cobra and the 360 Xochi Quetzal Residency, where I was able to finish this manuscript and experiment with physical and digital installation. All of these poems have already lived on the internet in various forms (Instagram posts, website pages, features) and will continue to do so. Thanks to Yes, Poetry for publishing “Power,” “agender,” “(the gargoyle at the Hotel Sorrento finally closes its eyes),” and “Anthem.” The latter three poems were included in their echapbook The Queer Body. lust fragment 1 was published by Mineral Lit Mag in their Lana del Rey mini-issue and lust fragments 13, 14 and 15 were published by Five South.

Notes “Sierra” is after the movie Gemini. “lust fragments” is titled after the album Lust for Life by Lana del Rey. “Alameda” incorporates notifications from the astrology app Co-Star. “The Chrysanthemums” is titled after a short story by John Steinbeck. “When I first began to speak publicly about my dysfunctional family” takes its title from page 130 of All About Love by Bell Hooks. The Hotel Sorrento is a historic hotel on First Hill in Seattle. “A Concept” was written in the Pacific Ocean at (56 14 N, 155 09 W). “Tuesday” is set in the Central District of Seattle. “A Little Life” is titled after the novel by Hanya Yanagihara and the first two lines are written after a statement made by Porochista Khakpour, overheard at the Hugo House in 2016. “Georgetown” is set in Flip Flip Ding Ding, a pinball bar in Georgetown, Seattle. “Last Quarter” is set at Pier 31 in Honolulu. “Zeus” is a cento composed of lines from “Lover’s Wine” by Charles Baudelaire, “In 200 B.C.” by C.P. Cavafy, love poem LII by Emily Dickinson, and “The Displaced Person” by Flannery O’Connor. “The Desire to be God” is titled after a concept by John Paul Sartre. “False Spring” is titled after Alex Dimitrov’s poem of the same name and was written in the sculpture garden at the Honolulu Art Museum’s Spalding House. “How could I describe the ending to you?” is titled after the first line of Dimitrov’s “Nights with People, Days Without.”

!II

Endnotes

This QR code goes to the digital immersive experience attached to this project, including working hyperlinks of the endnotes. 1

https://www.slantmagazine.com/film/gemini/

https://www.instagram.com/p/B4adDiyFpCF/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/cui-bono/201802/the-psychology-expectations

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNuMH2i6wdI&feature=youtu.be&t=120

!III

https://www.instagram.com/p/BqAsoC9Fvcn/

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz3urgPleWT/

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bu-PHS0lPSF/

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz53O8QlRue/

https://www.instagram.com/p/BfUbpNYgvSl/

https://www.instagram.com/p/BlS-ORDHQdh/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP4eqhWc7sI&feature=youtu.be&t=248

http://floatingwolfquarterly.com/9/alex-dimitrov/

https://www.academia.edu/19844377/ Introduction_Ugly_Feelings_Harvard_University_Press_2005_ 13

https://www.stereogum.com/1952848/lana-del-rey-is-mad-about-little-fuckers-downloading-herleaked-album/news/ 14

https://www.instagram.com/p/Btbr2aOBAGq/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

https://www.lambdaliterary.org/2010/10/alex-dimitrov-james-franco/

https://chaturbate.com/p/jaynasty77/?tab=bio

https://www.instagram.com/p/ByN5ooRFx82/

https://magazine.art21.org/2013/02/28/queer-berlin-james-francos-gay-town/#.X5lcqpNKhQI

https://www.moviefanatic.com/quotes/hiya-stranger-hiya-back/

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=902576016436825&set=a. 151219964905771&type=3&theater 22

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISjmjYU-kMI&feature=youtu.be&t=9

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=882533935107700&set=pb. 100000533048069.-2207520000..&type=3&theater 24

https://www.newsweek.com/history-james-francos-creepiness-nude-selfies-texting-teens-778311

https://www.instagram.com/p/BZQit4GhAxj/

https://www.sparknotes.com/short-stories/the-chrysanthemums/summary/

https://www.webmd.com/mental-health/munchausen-syndrome#1

https://www.nytimes.com/2000/01/30/books/that-4-letter-word.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNuMH2i6wdI&feature=youtu.be&t=46

https://youtu.be/3-NTv0CdFCk?t=190

https://issuu.com/joenasta/docs/napkin_poems

!IV

http://archive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/12/12/magazine/14actors.html? hp#2 32

https://youtu.be/v19W8qaQ4XI?t=627

https://youtu.be/tBwoRviPvVw?t=21

http://fishouse.wpengine.com/wp-content/themes/replay-new/archives/audio/7-Chambers-WolfsHeart.mp3 36

https://youtu.be/mKt_BzABN-U

https://www.dazeddigital.com/artsandculture/article/25606/1/james-franco-is-publishing-a-bookabout-lana-del-rey 37

https://www.instagram.com/lajotanasty/

https://www.youtube.com/watch? v=AcVQJJoD45w&list=OLAK5uy_m8igIPuZDSmOHDu5REA0LW5iES2wcokuY&index=6 39

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/may/30/chris-kraus-i-love-dick-was-written-in-adelirium 40

https://www.instagram.com/p/BtxAn3ghbwn/

https://www.instagram.com/p/Bof2NjchOLB/

https://www.nytimes.com/1987/10/25/magazine/about-men-an-ugly-feeling.html

http://seeingnature.site.seattleartmuseum.org/2016/10/29/2/okeeffe-black-iris-vi-1100px/

https://www.metrowestdailynews.com/entertainmentlife/20180603/new-york-botanical-gardenpresents-exhibit-of-georgia-okeeffes-hawaiian-paintings 45

http://floatingwolfquarterly.com/9/alex-dimitrov/11/grindr-2-ooh-youre-a-poet

https://issuu.com/joenasta/docs/saltsong_fragments

https://www.instagram.com/p/BtxAn3ghbwn/?igshid=l0kmvv00ug07