put me thru

hell is personalized enough to allow
me to get closer to you. the rhythm
you exude reminds me of half days
and scary mondays, manic episodes.

i speculate why you got married.

the scratches inside my coffin
spell out please while you &
i whisper about what the hell
i’m asking for.

they communicate through sound!!!!!

i get shaken by a 35-year-old virgin-dad
whose daughter threw me for a loop.

i thought you were gay.
i thought we were dating.

both mean the same shit.

i want to be the stone sisyphus
pushes so i can practice apologizing.
every rotation is a nightmare
waiting to happen & psychics
prompt me to wash my hands
in chebe body oil so my roots
are hydrated. (metaphorically)

the level of positivity i have depends on that hell.
the level of intelligence depends on your decision.

will the words i write now
match the coughing i hear?

what happens if
i stop pretending to care?

WHAT HAPPENS IF I GO TO HEAVEN?

​​

​​

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Maximalism and Real Monsters
 

the nature of carnage: the resemblance

of spring: it’s the same secret:
my body belongs in water

desiccated by earth-boring
dung beetles i caught

upside down in my father’s scrotum

what i write

what i confess on a sheet
inside out & folded wrong

is neuro-syphilis and newfound trust

in a partner you cheated on

​

everything remains cool &

hot & warm & breezy but

cover-ups = taboo

every time i move around
i meet more queers traumatized
by fetishes getting off to the IDEA of irene

grandmaster flash getting off to
the IDEA of candied greens or
my mother getting off the IDEA

of progressive motherhood

what’s the point of colored nails
if you’re transitioning? dull

you’re not real—you’re made up of

unlickable candy: toberlone i’ve never

tried or mike & ike’s without the ‘m’

it’s all a guise

for the love
of gender roles

 

Joe Potter is someone who believes in disorientation and freedom in expression. He lives in both Connecticut and a general state of creation.