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NDN Coping Mechanisms: Notes from the Field
by Billy-Ray Belcourt
A country is how men hunt in the dark. A man I love but don’t trust kisses me the way a soldier might press his face into the soil of his old country.
Behind the wheel of a car without headlights, the night is a lukewarm mouth we sing into.
In every account of my adolescence, I hurled myself at a prison so that moonlight could tiptoe inside — the captive jutted out of me like music!
a mattress covered in moss soft as September
A creature of habit, I dip my feet into the dirt of yet another man’s chest.
Sometimes a body is that which happens to you.
If I could uninvent the words “priest” and “prayer,” then the dead could come back from the dead for at least a chance at revenge.
A white boyfriend of mine wanted to be less beholden to the clouds. I told him we were all at mercy of the sky, for better or worse.
My hobbies include: not dying, obsessively apologizing to the moon for all that she has to witness, and slow dancing to the tune of “Heaven” by Bryan Adams with men who refuse to give in to the life-changing magic of vulnerability.
I instill the place between that world and ours with flammable meaning / I make a wildfire out of it
I oscillate between Grindr and an essay about Toronto’s Grindr serial killer. This is a reference to Foucault.
1. Top me, but ontologically.
All this talk of how poetry brings us closer to language, but what if it’s already left? Found a gentler species? Warner mouths?
Prove to me that he who despises the world isn’t also transfixed by it.
Behind the wheel of a car without headlights, the night is a lukewarm mouth we sing into.
In every account of my adolescence, I hurled myself at a prison so that moonlight could tiptoe inside — the captive jutted out of me like music!
a mattress covered in moss soft as September
A creature of habit, I dip my feet into the dirt of yet another man’s chest.
Sometimes a body is that which happens to you.
If I could uninvent the words “priest” and “prayer,” then the dead could come back from the dead for at least a chance at revenge.
A white boyfriend of mine wanted to be less beholden to the clouds. I told him we were all at mercy of the sky, for better or worse.
My hobbies include: not dying, obsessively apologizing to the moon for all that she has to witness, and slow dancing to the tune of “Heaven” by Bryan Adams with men who refuse to give in to the life-changing magic of vulnerability.
I instill the place between that world and ours with flammable meaning / I make a wildfire out of it
I oscillate between Grindr and an essay about Toronto’s Grindr serial killer. This is a reference to Foucault.
1. Top me, but ontologically.
All this talk of how poetry brings us closer to language, but what if it’s already left? Found a gentler species? Warner mouths?
Prove to me that he who despises the world isn’t also transfixed by it.