I said I was not going to send a signal flare, but I did. Upon reading some petty internet poetry “criticism” where I was misgendered by another (ugh, who cares). It’s of little consequence, the shape of the fig leaf, the kink of the hair. And, not to talk shit, but \ she was one of those / self-righteous light-skinned femmes. As was I \ once … now I just dance / though I lack grace (plus a coherent sense of what “I” am). In 舞踏 class, teacher said during meditation: Be thankful to those who have hurt you because they too are part of whatever journey has brought you here. “Sure, OK.” The one time I saw Marina Amabrović, I was on a very bad first date. Within a few days, an acquaintance known only to me as “Teddy” posted a photo of himself from that same day. I later recognized this exact photo on the Museum of Modern Art’s webpage for The Artist is Present; in it, Teddy’s face appears notably frustrated, pained, inelegant & cliché (a hallmark of a lot of “good” performance art). Inside the spectacle that is the museum, I contemplate not grace, but a relatively benign blue-green shape while imagining the various ways a body can (in spite of social convention) articulate what feels both transgressive and deliriously commonplace.