so this morning, he turns over in his wondering where he is, and just before it all comes back to him, to face me with his bedroom eyes, and i am, as always, taking his photograph/ he rolls his eyes/ he asks if there is anything about me that has nothing to do with sex/ the answer, of course, is no/ nada/ what he doesn’t understand is that the reason i am so out there with it, is to make love to it, too, that part of who i am, it’s like joy, it’s like desire, it’s like joy and desire are things we are all supposed to hide, but we do a shit job of it/ photography being just another form of masturbation, and writing an even more powerful paradigm to lick with my motherfucking tongue/ so, this morning, before ten cups of coffee, i get to suck his tits people ask me what art is/ art, all art, being political, is what you can get away with/

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