BARBER ON  ISLAND
cut your hair killdeerskin
EXODY THE BODY close your
eyes it’s i-i-i-EYE my friend & not
the halo & its dried clay
sub-merging totality into
fracture ; oneness
in GREETINGS , CONTINGENCY
of my sex taking off the veer
that of which periphery is made
when i embody change & not flesh am i
unhumaning myself ?
a question mark
is the most transsexual punctuation
oh get rid
of those bangs i have nightmares
When a man dies you can’t quite prove it.
Death is not a clinical thing.
To what extent does breath constitute a life epitomized?
When I died I was more alive than ever.
I KNOW DUST DOESN’T REALLY HAVE WINGS but dust in the air is not dust
on the ground we have to have a name for it a name inaugurates meaning
inaugurates existence & we can’t just ignore dust that recognizes you
& not your shoe sole
so i propose doing away with names if any so nothing can ever get its
existence enacted & then all of us will have circles cut around us by invisible
scissors & that way the entire paper will disappear every cutout will takeover
nonexistence will be made legislature & we will eat so well even in the winter
because we are rendered dead by laws of the universe i.e. conventional logic *i*
am already dead anyways i use the word dead because i am not dead but is
there any word for self-imposed self-death creating self-life halfway into your breathing
i am dead in a way that matters so very much
On  island there’s a barber. I dreamed of him. I made him cut my hair.
T.R. San (they/them) is a queer poet based in Yangon who writes horror without meaning to. Their work has been published or is forthcoming in Corporeal Magazine, VIBE, and others. You can find them on Twitter @cinemapoem