Queer Fish
suicide note: “Why go on
giving them the satisfaction
of another month’s rent?”
striving to achieve in life the agency
that most achieve only after death when
the wishes of their last wills become commands
she could not bring herself to finish
the book on her dead husband, it being
her way to avoid relinquishing him
pop music, pop holiday, observance to keep intact
the same reality that your radicality threatens to shatter;
sticking close to your country’s embassy in the alien land
returning home from having had to kill even children soldiers,
most likely he can barely stand the “Welcome home, hero” signs,
let alone the stick figures of him mowing down the bad guys
we used to thank God that we were there
to prepare the body for burial with our own hands,
but now we thank God for the opposite
the law on the proper way to communicate
sexual consent demands a “Yes” be given,
not a nod, a kiss back, or even a “Hai” or “Si”
sticking around only to show
you were not lying
about loving her
if the comedy club
were not dark, so often
we would be too afraid to laugh
forming memories
is a form of writing, and writing
is a form of forgetting
are albino fingers really magical?
vomiting upon the strangled face, hands still clenched
the taboo against masturbation is good for getting us out of the house
not unpacking, due to lack of trust in the situation
tattoos turning out to be mere testaments to manic episodes
bonds only with characters in movies watched again and again
shame sleep
scared to improvise,
knowing that improvising
reveals who you truly are
the present thief that is
lust for the future
often makes hell bearable
having failed at the compromise, you wonder
why you ever let fear stop you
from going after your dream
inspired by all the social media posts
of elk heads high, in innocence
he posts the trophy of his elephant hunt
behaviors not understood to be
consequences of racism cited
as justification for the racism
the whole summer vacation in a backyard tent
every experience here, no matter how exotic,
is always tinged with a sense of being regular:
the first taking of Christ’s body, the first bungee jump
rejecting the ugly
even as we cannot fathom
how people can reject a whole race
surprised to learn that the one
whom you could have sworn was gay
is the biggest skirt-chaser or them all
those who have died young
enabled by a culture
not wanting to fat-shame.
M. A. Istvan Jr., PhD, born and raised in a functioning ghost town (now turned hipster haven), has a gift for sensing the vibrational frequencies—the earth spirits, if you will—of even the densest flesh: tree, stone, mineral. A certified (but failed) forest-bathing therapist, Istvan writes best—bestial—faded into the backgrounds of brothels, tended to by the ladies for whom his focused presence proves that men can want—can be—something more. Most people stay out of Istvan’s vicinity. His hurried step, fierce expression, and wild hand gestures while speaking (speaking in what is perhaps best described as auditory cursive) set off the insanity-detectors ingrained in us by deep history.
Bindweed Magazine 