To a certain degree, at a certain point, the body prison harasses the spirit. This is what they call contingency. To be male, but not masculine – nor even feminine, in that regard. To be a-gender, a-sexual, a-morphous; but not a-political, a-pathetic, a-pologetic. The body prison offers no middle ground, but a battlefield. Who I am and what I am are polar enemies of reason.
Again, to be male, to be hairy, to be deep-voiced, to be short-hair-headed, to be the owner of large hands, large arms, large calves, a thick jaw, thick chest, thick toes – to be all that I cannot be, wish to be, want to be. To be or not to be within the framework of the body prison, my body prison, marks the death of what could have been, would have been, should have been.
A male privilege so raw it must be cooked and cooked again to ensure that each and every toxic fiber poses no more threat than the petals of a wild flower that only needs to be basked in sun-rays and baptized by the holy touch of uneven rain.
My body prison is a redemptive prayer to all the afflictions inflicted. In other words, and in other worlds, an inflectional ending of a word so crude in its bestowed-upon power: male-ness. The horror, the horror. A heart of darkness, void and Con-niving. The body prison ought to be history re-written.
Who I am and who I want to be are two separate warriors – they ride opposing waves of binary sea-rulers. Why should anyone be encased in corporal literature that addresses nothing but the two end-covers of the same book. My body is the story in between, provided it can be erased.
The arsenal between my legs gives the half-eaten moon a wobbly nose. Love can be made differently, separately, independently of a rod. Queer culture cracked the code, but it pretends as if it didn’t. My body prison is a prison of non-normative values upheld, uprooted, upended in small circles of small-town misfits who drink themselves silly and steal glances from one another – lest anyone finds out their own limitations.