Twisted, weaved basketry and rainbow air is awash in my seasoned hands: I look at my palms, often, when distressed and binging.  It helps me come to grips with their snitching & stitching.  And then I look at my fingernails to decide they’re too long but not ready to be cut.  My hair’s not ready to go either.  Strings of hair lift above me, the marionette that I am, and gets tangled in the whir of the slow blades of the ceiling fan that came with the mold of the Apt.  When I’m in pain—I notice the map on my bedroom wall is clear in my eyes and it reminds me of blood.  I’ve hanged myself without death to make her jealous.  Because she reminds me she’s somewhere in the rainbow air.  She thinks I’m a filmmaker, but really I’m an actor; she thinks I’m a musician but really I’m a writer.  My gaze is male and so is my walk.  My penis is erect and seemingly circumcised.  Sometimes I quiver when I cum indoors and all over my masculinity.  I’ve run out of tissues & paper towels, so I clean up with the paper of my journals, which is that much easier to write on when I want the paper to rip.  I leave the cum-stained papers out and on the carpet for three days, to let the sperm die—extinguished by the poetics of masturbation.

The rainbow air is found outdoors when death adjusts her bra strap and tells me I’ve got time.  She unclips time to reveal her smallish breasts and puffy, pregnant nipples.  Death instructs me to bite her a little, right under her right areola where the full flesh is best.