Martyr d

This is a distillation of experience. My name is Tracy Struck.

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Queer as queer can be.

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My first ever buzz cut.  

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I’m in the Zoloft/ Well-rested and full of dread/ Giving up on my mother again

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Sometimes I’m not helpful because I have other things to do. The moral database collects info while I ride the bus into lapsang souchong. Sitting around a pinewood fire revitalizes parts of me that go into hiding during federal holidays. I want to float my bones in the outer rings of Saturn and come back to a picnic table with grilled hot dogs and potato salad.  It’s interesting how you said that all human beings need affirmation but never gave me any.  I said that trauma was trending and you took offense.  I learned to read tea leaves so I could ask the world what it needs from me.  I saw fallopian tubes and declared it a sham.

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In the winter it started it started again. Taquitos mojitos no texting Jim. An orange sunrise buttered toast hot chocolate a log fire grateful the sky could still snow I ventured out in poor shoes and slipped.  Out of the gash came gold coins clinkling loudly on side street and a raspberry gelée better suited for spring.  The children took advantage. I exchanged a message on the cash app and found myself droned on a Tuesday at the psychic meet up with indigestion like a baby’s first kicks.  My mother called, and it took no special gift to sketch the rest. I am riding an old grey horse backwards.  I am riding Ethel backwards, but she knows the way.  My body is a supply chain producing pancakes in hell.  The sensation is a hard slap on the cheek that I saw coming.  The sensation keeps me warm in the night.  

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swimsuit issues

Swami mami lolemiton    I rode you by the Parthenon    Glistening whips of dangling lips   Flagellating in ways   Frothy milky creamy cool

Yum yr gums    Receding in Phoenix    Drought cramps    Cases of White Claw overflowing Best Western swimming pool trash can        flies

Nearly jumped outside a Circle K by a backpack wearing 18 yr old girl    my sensible shoes and face mask

Gimme machismo like Kathy Acker    Big bikes and leather    Chest puffing against fear    If only I had the money

Fill the open void of my core    Or shrink me and use me as a key chain    Dangling in the ignition    Going along for the ride

Let me be alone   with you in a small square room   one window overlooking a dead lawn and white plastic pedestal    a large ceramic bowl of Frosted Flakes sitting on top    I’m eating a piece of fruit that won’t exist in 30 years   its sunset colored juice runs down the left side of my chest where my breast used to be    I’m imagining this   you love me    and identity politics    I love you best when your eyes are lined and you’re acting like Nietzsche toward the horse of Turin,    and I am that horse 

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old yellow rose

She wouldn’t drink anything out of a plastic glass.  She wasn’t aware of how hard people worked to maintain her calm.  Every night her plea was “Help”; the only thing that changed was the object to which she directed it.  She wanted to be transformed by turmeric, animals, structure, and pain.  When her friend told her she was “so nice,” she knew at once that he 1. really didn’t know her at all and 2. meant the full offense she felt when he said it.  She would floss her teeth twice tonight, taking care of what she had. 

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Agatha Christina Overpass

A life

an ice cube

sliding down

wooden steps

dissolving

She believed in moderation

And so it was one cup of coffee one cigarette one Ritalin one joint one glass of wine one steak salad one shot of heroin every day.  She was 25 and looked 35 and that was okay.  Substances like stitches holding herself together.

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far away from here

I am eating the bread with no urgency.  I am eating the bread with care.  Wheat, water, sea salt.  The butter in the pockets I am licking.  The dog at my side I am ignoring.  I am eating the bread with all of my attention.  The phone is ringing; the friends are calling.  I am eating the bread, rapt.  This earth I am holding, this earth I am tasting, I am doing it with care.

The winter comes slowly this year.  Ronnie has come through the door, wanting to stay the night.  She’s got her long black skirt on.  She is wearing her grey cotton tights.  The heels on her boots are worn down, the leather is faded brown.  She combed her hair for me.  Ronnie wants to tell me about the meaning of her star map.  Ronnie wants us to take the dogs for a walk in the hills.  She brought her guitar.  We’ll have popcorn and hot chocolate at the end of the day and maybe a little red wine.  I’ll pull out the couch for her and the woolen blanket with the cardinal on it.  The wind blows heavy in the night.  The weather vanes spin, the chimes ring.