don’t ask me for my number

Of course, this means more than just my telephone number.

You want my mobile phone number? Input my name IRL and browse it up on any of various internet sites with public information, i.e.Truthfinder or White Pages.

And I’ve given it to men who ought to call me, who I wanted to call me, but didn’t.

Still, not entirely their fault. Because I won’t answer unless you’re in my contact list.

Meanwhile, Mark Hamill shouted out his number in the first Star Wars.

star wars compactor

Would a woman do this? I seriously doubt it. Because it simply isn’t safe.

We still are in a rape culture. I wish it weren’t true, but I’ve known too many women.

Some of them personally, and some of them from the news.

vanessaguillenmural

So when I say “don’t ask me my number” I reference the other pop meaning: how many people with whom I have had sex.

But I have to say, for all those, like me, who have survived non-consentual sex: WTF?

And I shouldn’t have to remind everyone, but I will remind everyond that LGBTQ+ individuals are always at a higher risk for being sexually assaulted because they are already marginalized, and those who rape and murder seek out the vulnerable.

And so, with all respect, I represent anyone who has no clue what their number is.

Don’t ask me what my number is, and I won’t ask you what your sins are.

Seriously, people. Don’t you want your lover to want you? Anything less is… less.

Get right, get with full and utter consent. Only yes means yes. It can still be sexy.

That song will always remind me of MRME, because I once wrote him a note about the fact that he apparently kept wearing the same shirt every time I saw him.

“I’ll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand-new shirt, get home early from work… if you say… that you love me.”

Right now, I have a collection of poems that is half about musical instruments and half about implements. Not even really tools, although I think I could write a poem about a hammer, or a screwdriver, or a drill.  Still have no clue what to name the volume.  I have been thinking of instruments, implements and tools but that’s a mouthful.

Meanwhile, here’s a poem about an implement. Enjoy.

razor

shiny and sharp
edge
of metal
scraping away the
beautiful yet bestial
facial hair
which
any man
worth a cock
is born with
but which
prevents him from being
whatever the fashion
d’jour
requires;

or for the female
au courant
requirement
to be
girlish
to the point of
pedophilic
fetish,
with unnaturally
smooth
lips
despite her
soft bumps and bends
of flesh
which nick
so easily and then
bleed;

or a wrist
(straight up the vein
and not across)
if the world
and its demands
become
too much and
Death
is the only
ensemble
that fits.

Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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