by Jordaan Mason
+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+ A math equation I used to know was this terrible weight of the body plus the infinite weight of the rock of the earth is forests full of white wine. This textbook in my head I swallowed whole like a snake, causing nightmares, dizziness, euphoria, namelessness, running away from home on my birthday, eventual panic, locking all of the doors, unlocking all of the doors, mouthfuls of garbage, head and stomach pain, throwing up for no real reason, a sandwich my mother made in a brown bag, eventually forgetting my birthday, a ghost, a wet mattress. All of this as textbooks is coming out of me thick and wet again, like how every day I just assumed he had already forgotten my name. We had telepathic communication. I never needed to touch him, but I did, because I wanted to. I wanted to break all of the bones in his body just to have him. And then I said: a math equation I used to know was this amount of your semen in my mouth plus how much you've left inside of her is a thousand dead children, a graveyard of bedsheets, and I don't remember my own name either. I rewrote all of the textbooks down across my legs with a wrench, this math equation I used to know: this mother and this father is these children coming crooked from the bunkers, false fire crackers in their mouths, my house is on fire I told you this before. My head is on fire and I've got the dictionary in my mouth but I can't swallow it. A dictionary is just another book filled with words. A curse word jar. If I ate enough of the language I thought I would be able to articulate my own ambiguity. How terrified I was. Am. And fix? Fix being alarm clocks, telephones, computers. This is fix. This is all being digested by me. How much could my body handle: it's basic. A humidifier. An entire soundtrack of cars. All of the energy from all of the houses. How can they all enjoy their dinner, so much with their mouths, I wondered, when I'm eating it all for them. When there's fire in everything we eat. He said we're swallowing fire in our sleep. I woke with my tongue burnt, my limbs being pulled apart by an entire league of doctors and professional technicians. Linguists who feared I was eating their language. Everything they had studied so hard. In the x-rays of my stomach, they also found lava lamps, stethoscopes, plastic bags, dishwashers, strawberry banana pancakes. They said I would run out of room but I knew I would never be full. I took all of what I could. I came apart at the seams. My ears were filled with many train parts. What I want to ask him is: can he set up categories for my wild, make room for it in his drawers, pull back up his pants when he is finished filling me up? I wait and wait for his wild, for him wild and fucking me to fill me. What rather would I be than a pocket and a place to keep some of him. Is he not static yes is he material moving everywhere yes. And can he find me, my wild? The three of us all move in circular motion, I watch him through windows fucking her up against the bed, like two elephants that haven't eaten in months. A prayer is all these suitcases packed and me pillaging through the graveyard for a million things to say. Looking for anybody would who would be willing to share fluid instead of dialogue, conversation. Like: I am staring at The Canon right but it has no eyes? Like: I am waiting for five hundred books to fill up my stomach but all I am is heavy with fire and flood. By night, when the heat is heavier on the houses, when it collapses around the gardening sheds, we stay outside for hours at a time, lingering around the radio towers. This transmission I received that night was: All duty is dream all you are is wildfires. And I wake up and my mouth is black bear fur instead of fine bone and tissue and I cannot get him or it out of me, no matter what I do: dancing in parking-lots, drunk, listless, screaming, blowing old men, arcades and malls everywhere instead of fire, books I stole from the library, books I put in my head for safe keeping. He gave me a photograph of his mother to carry in my wallet instead of a photograph of him. He says: this is where I came from and that's what more important and this is my real face. I wanted to tell him that he doesn't even know her, but instead more liquid in my lungs, on my face, bathroom stalls in the winter, a good hundred graves grown around me while I am sleeping on this photograph, losing pinball, a sense of where I put my cutlery, where to put laundry in my mouth, roam, roam, roar. And I have been with plaid-covered men, collapsed on beer-bellies sleeping in the woods after a fuck (disjointed, surrounded by heavywood, eating mushrooms to stay alive). I have had beards tough against my face, antlers dug into my back, scraping the blood into their mouths, and bucking their hips heavy and hard, saying how sweet it is to have more of me than anyone, my knees skinning against the bark of trees, tangled in the heads of husbands. I had a hundred men, all lined up, ready for me to let them do what their wives wouldn't. They passed through me. I did not want to be safe. I wanted to share the body that I had as it was with nothing between us. And the textbook said that two things never touch directly, not really, because there are moving particles between the particles that make us up, and so there is always a distance, even if minute. I wanted nothing of the distance. I wanted to get rid of it. I didn't care about being clean, I was fine with having sores on me, with the pains of growing. I wondered: what about three? Can three things ever touch, if two can't? Do we meet in a triangular shaped room somewhere, creating, somehow, a solid that cannot be broken? Does the language that we share save us from this distance at all? Can we form some sort of wall? I got the blood from my head in the river and on their beds. I left trails of it through the woods, trying to find them, pressing my mouth against their foreheads. I wobbled in and out of states, the pitch of the radio transmissions whining and piercing more holes in the heads of deer, of dandelions, of dogs. Of me and the matter that made me, the mother that I never had who somehow had me, and a group of boys wandering through the woods with me all delirious as if they had not struck any amount of food in months, all the while holding the blood from my head on my hands and asking the hands why did they did not come off of me, rolling around in their bedsheets singing no songs at all, catching the jaws of my skull on their collarbones and hanging off the top of the bunkbed knocking all of the teeth from me, all of the seed from me, sewn into their clothes again with dried semen all that's left of me, choirs the whole time holding me down and telling me, it's time.
Jordaan Mason is a confused and medicated faggot who enjoys all-day breakfast, cooking, dreaming, eating, and fucking. His work has appeared in NOÖ Journal and is forthcoming in UNSAID magazine. He lives in Toronto with his husband and his cat. Find him at globeandmale.tumblr.com.