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But here queering means something

different so when you place the little pin on the map

it ends up a few miles down, or on another continent, or

it gets lost among a swirl of colors and textures.

What is orientation anyway.

And here queering is physical and every spot is

filled with faggots kissing each other,

every bench has a cum stain, every bush is teeming with cruisers.

sunlight is a new color and it doesn’t matter.

Nighttime is safe and has always been ours.

And by queering the map I mean that every street and city changes,

some even disappear. The whole world changes

and is reborn and remade better.

Distance means something different now,

nobody is turned away from the hospital.

And when the police come, because they always do,

they will find nothing but an empty room,

a street so clean it’s like nobody has ever walked it before.

and when they turn to leave there is just another wall.

it doesn’t matter if it was there before.

And when you open up the website

the entire city is awash with black pins,

there’s nothing left for them here,

no location information to steal

because everywhere is a queer moment.



is what i call it when my cock

doesn’t get hard despite the addition of a fourth finger scouring my prostate.

must be the estrogen, or the zoloft, or it just feels better this way.

radical softness is a tired trope anyway. we didn’t get anywhere by being soft

well we only kind of did. i don’t practice radical softness but i still miss being able to cum ropes.

radical hardness is when a gay man grabs my tit without asking and i stand still.

radical hardness is a gun or a knife or a raised finger.

radical softness is not doing anything while our people are still dying.

there’s some hypocrisy there but a mountain is still

and not soft.

radical hardness is when the blows hurt enough.

when the full fist, knuckles and all, fits.

radical softness is licking wounds.

fuck passivity, put the heterosexuals against the wall and fuck me against it after.



after Jackson Mac Low

just petulant petals patter moss

venerable distant milky blackness rushing

slick crushed blood sternum brachia

cerebral somnus or different

speckled obsidian

sediment washed rulers no.

fleeting power held clutched hands

branching hours outlet beige

crumbled popcorn sickly white

tapping years other things

grass seeds empty

enough raindrops

red rubber bowls

seven loose angles add

petrified stolen cinnamon

frames ligament twine tense relax

prayer means itself

conjunctions and the is of yesterday

welcome pilgrim

rest your head


Evelyn Bauer is a writer, bookseller, and wine punk living on stolen land in so called 'New England.' She is often found reviewing books, petting cats, and listening to experimental music. You can find some of her tabletop roleplaying games at, and her poems in Moral Crema, Corporeal Lit Mag, and Not Deer Mag. Find her on twitter at @neo_cubist.

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