Michigan
Oliver Baez Bendorf
     You all tell me, go and hide my tail between my legs.
     I will no longer put up with this shit.
     I have been beaten.
     I have had my nose broken.
     I have been thrown in jail.
     I have lost my job.
     I have lost my apartment.
     For gay liberation, and you all treat me this way?
     What the fuck's wrong with you all?
     Think about that!

                    - Sylvia Rivera



daisy fleabane arrives early after winter onslaught of lake effect

snow melt becomes water that feeds wildflowers from the underside

becomes flood

comes family

a cellular structure for secrets

the year is 2020

everyone is sick and healing

not everyone

everyone is sick or healing

lives are precious or expendable

expelled, expressed, released, sighed

sloughed off to replicate in someone else's precious or expendable lungs

germination, occupation

months between vagus nerve and a memory of sociality

you might as well be in Michigan

I rolled into a pleasant peninsula seeking safe haven

and yes sometimes an invisible cloak fits over my house

caped children walk by carrying plastic pumpkins

I push grass ordinance to edges

a local construction of crime

legal height lowered

brace for tensions with neighbors

I mow a tiny strip around the meadow

the pollinator garden tickles the curb with liberated wildflowers

fleabane daisies such a startling puff of yellow

pink clover right over and dock

dead limbs rotting but controlled into compost

we will grow things here, "we are in this together"

I'll post a sign explaining

and pray no one calls

on the rooster

who rushes to elevation to greet the day

or warn of it

all day the same bugle meaning something only in his kingdom

which I happen to live in

I surround myself in brown

deck stains and elk and moose

of the Michigan flag

state whistle toad song

don't you know? sun cooks

the shame away

who else needs to survive

I am trying to answer one question

I measure miles from the arbitrary border

drive-through pharma for extra

vials of testosterone—controlled substance

Rx sees a criminal queer

scrutinizes ID then dispenses a paper bag folded closed and stapled which I toss

empty passenger seat sanitize my hands keep driving

fueled by fossils

north in Michigan what is a mortgage

is it a house of cards a debt meant never to be repaid

token of achievement in settlement's shadow

am I the last loser in Michigan still banking

on silence and pleasantries to protect me

strangers/neighbors power walk past my ragged lawn

their yards are dull and starve hummingbirds, monarchs, cardinals, and bees

how is that more beautiful?

if I stay in line

if I keep my head down

if I work harder

et cetera

I have held my tail between my legs and sang "grateful"

I have been spit on for whose hand I held, harassed for the pants I wore, catcalled for existing

I have been slandered by the God Hates Fags family

I studied their church compound on Google Street View

and saw the Pride center painted in rainbow across the street

I can no longer be placated by the colorful advancement of rights

depressed: to push or pull down

no wonder

an old ordinance still on the books

bans fortune telling

another way I am a criminal here

between that and the forbidden meadow

and some other elements

and the privileges I am often permitted

I forgot to assemble, paid on time every month

did homophobia's work by playing "smear the queer"

Sylvia didn't DIE for me to hide my tail between my legs

so I untether from my respectable nest

holding the "x" in my hand like a rosary

and like a brick

I'm done being good!
from the book CONSIDER THE ROOSTER / Nightboat Books
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Mathias Svalina
"Surrealistic Zillow": On Mathias Svalina's Walking Tours

"He characterizes the tours as having 'little roots in facts [that] grow into unfactual strawberry bushes,' he says. This seems true of all the history we’ve ever been told. Even those historical highway markers are just one part of one story, one event or building chosen over another. So how does Svalina choose his? .... 'It’s a little bit trying to connect with the actual history of the neighborhoods and a little bit unearthing stuff from what people walk by and don’t look at.' And it’s a little bit emo, he says."

via STYLE WEEKLY
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Cover image of G. C. Waldrep's book, The Opening Ritual
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G. C. Waldrep on Ecopoetry Now 


"For me as a poet there’s a joy in sheer description, as there is also an excitement in the act of address....Description is always an act of translation. And in so doing propose, to some notional reader, that something could be shared. To address, meaning to conjure that notional reader (or auditor) explicitly, via deixis: you. You there. Not you, but you. You, defined as whatever or whomever the poem is addressing. Sometimes I think 'you' is the most complicated word in the English language. 'You' is always a revelation to me."
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