Beloved Motherfuckers -
is the way I'd like to start all invitations - equal parts come here and fuck off and mostly I love how it sounds - that's closest to truth - Oh beloveds I go mad for a good sound! But I get away from my reason for writing - I have been sending off emails and trying to figure how to end them - Best? v/r? Cheers? Thank you? - I don't like any - I don't mean any - but anyways I come across this fantastic phrase Beloved Motherfuckers - I realize I also haven't liked my mail greetings until now but here it is - the one to end all ones - it reminds me of the way I get upset about animals getting killed but I still probably use products tested on animals because I haven't bothered to do adequate research - that's not admirable it's just - true - oh oh! - it also reminds me - this year is the year of Death for me in my tarot and it is also my golden birthday - yes I turn Midas-fingered twenty seven this month, the same year as my year of death - how delicious is that? - Here, I watch things die and here I bask in the yellow glow - How am I supposed to shed anything if I'm solid gold? Maybe I'll leave behind human form? A breathing dead. And through that - that temporal form that I am forced to take - I will... I'm in a café. The couple next to me is eating takeout thai food while sipping lattés and that disgusts me - my pretention and their thai food - not the thai food itself - but the thai food being so out of place.
-I think I'm going to accept that med school offer.
-Do it. Let's go. Let's move to Minnetonka.
And damn it! They've ruined all my train of thought because now I'm wracking to think if there's a Minnetonka that exists or if he is making a joke I do not get. How much will it cost them to get there? What is gas these days? The cost of things - managing my menstrual blood, greens at the market, letting you look at my eyes, my pants aren't fitting - is always the most interesting thing. Trust me. Look at what is left after a room burns - a ring, a filling, silver coins, a metal grate, ash, ash, ash - and all the flesh formed by consequence is gone - another year - I'm starting to see it in me now -I search other bodies for proof of pain - not for solidarity, just to know it exists as I believe in it - I do this frantically, as frantically as the way I read books, as frantically as the way I accumulate experience, as frantically as the way I come. I have done it again, I will do it again. I am no miracle but repetition. I avoid closure because I don't know how to sign off. And I don't know if that's for me or for you. And I am reaching - reaching so hard through this pen for the words - fighting through the crowded train - fighting for my life and my death - but we all know what a laugh that is - I am the person who will freeze and as reflex, offer herself to be the one pushed off - shit, could you imagine that walk home? I know how to end.
Let us, the lowly, be thankful for the offerings
that fall upon kings with their secrets.
Let us, the meager, stand in admiration of the magnificent fingers to heaven,
the antenna connecting above to the gawd glass and those within -
those beneficiaries of manna, those chosen manifest.
This is true gratitude:
that we, with scant plate and skinny bone,
ask not why we are starving
but why the crown is not fat.
Enough of that.
Sovereignty is of no concern to us now -
(The last we saw of monarchy in epic literary proportion
was when literally reading Shakespeare.)
Democratic convention promises equality and rings freedom.
(Ask not what freedom is nor who has it
for it rings and it rings
I myself exorcise mine here. First amendment. Mine freedom
in pen to paper forgetting the cost of the leaves' last breath,
forgetting circumstances (they make not freedom so).
This is the land of the law given right and the bell tolls for choose and choose again.
Here, there is no king, no.
Here there is freedom
even for the low.
I am significantly illusioned as I carry a tablet of newsprint, a woven bag full of cable cords and an old track phone through the streets as children lie on the sidewalk and giggle. As their friends draw chalk lines around the bodies.
I am too proud to ask for directions to Fourth and Revolution.
Just last night I was on the floor in fetal position after the election.
Just last night I had an orgasm.
Is love a mechanism for forgetting?
I am significantly illusioned as I carry a tablet of newsprint, a woven bag full of cable cords and an old track phone.
I am well equipped for the revolution as long as there's a power source.
Here are the children drawing chalk lines around bodies.
Here is a woman carrying more bags and bumming a cigarette.
Here is America.
The killing spree never ended, it just got politically correct.
If they go low and we go high, they will stay on the ground making laws and we will float amongst the privileged clouds of abstraction.
Must I remind you that gravity is not selective?
God also has a place amongst the clouds and last I checked
God isn't doling out healthcare or voting rights.
This is the killing ground so liberals get your guns, the KKK won't enter your educated discourse.
But can we find the ground again
The ground soaked with native blood?
Can we meet in the streets littered with children
Littered with black bodies?
Or would descension send us into a tailspin
as we recognized the stench?
As we recognized our own weak stomachs.
Buy a bag of apples, keep them in the fridge and throw one in your bag every time you leave the house.
But don’t ever eat it.
Instead, empty your bag at the end of the day then set the apple on the closest surface.
Leave it there.
When it shrivels, it will teach you things.
Put flowers in vases everywhere.
Let them sit until they’ve sucked up all the water then dried then molded.
There are no secret gardens
Search for things that are not there.
What the fuck is going on?
As the wind blows paper tape
Tied to stakes
Consider taking cigarettes
To Standing Rock
A full bladder makes it hard to do just about anything except draw dots on your fingers just under the cuticles.
In the face of we’re all heading towards death
The same no exemptions
What is fear?
What is freedom?
If you never smoked weed out of an apple in high school, you missed a critical coming of age ritual.
Or do I mean crucial?
No one outgrows:
Slip n slides
Mac n cheese
At least we all have that
Weather change is dependent on the season.
No person is the salt of the earth only salt is the salt of the earth but salt is the magic of the earth.
Never eat a human
to White Post Farms Pumpkin Patch Melville, NY. They had advertised a petting farm so I was expecting a couple goats, some pot bellied pigs, a cow or three and maybe some chickens running around...
A giraffe in a house (a giraffe house) smaller than my mother's
2 zebras on a dirt plot no bigger than a suburban front yard
A pig pen housing a donkey, 2 ostrich, a chicken, and 8 goats
A dog run full of antelope
SO MANY rams on a wooden ladder
Toucans in a small glass cage
Little ponies, like 15, tied up to fence posts and saddled up for rides around the whatever this place was
None of the cages had grass.
I asked someone who worked there where the animals go when the season is over....
They stay there. They never leave their areas. All year round, all day long they are in the same place I found them.
Their coats are matted and their feathers are dull and the sounds... screams and country music and bleating and children and screams and squeals and rattling and hooves on wood...
I tried to replicate (very quietly and under my breath) some of the sounds and I had to stop or else I wouldn't be able to contain the sobs that were forming in me.
Packed in tight to this very small area, they are all fed the same pellets out of ice cream cones and the sounds and the images are swirling... and then you turn around and underneath the booth that sells -
Fuck. I don't even know what the booth sold because it was made out of a glass cage full of rabbits and I tried to get to the bathroom and I tripped over a child as I looked at the birds in the net with the trees made out of plastic and the fake flowers and the fat woman holding two parrots on her hand smiling in the background of someone else's picture...
Old carnival toys everywhere. And bouncy houses. And the pumpkin patch isn't actually a pumpkin patch because the pumpkins clearly didn't grow there they're just scattered on the ground.
Enjoy the photos.
... mostly I'm a realist except as far as inevitability is concerned because I want change to be realer
than fate or humanity (TA would call this "being a toad" or "not seeing the scorpion for what it is"
but he's a cynic so who knows how valid that is) and there are never any patterns -
nothing is the same but nothing is different (this allows for no prescription except unless
you are among the moral then... pills it is!) so maybe it's romantic this need for amorphization
or evolution and I'm no realist at all just a stoic untrusting romantic construction or! a fallen optimist like satan oh god am I satan? (this will make my mother uncomfortable to read) I walked past a little orange haired child being carried in the rain by her daddy in Hell's Kitchen and I said "oh what an angel" and the poet said "won't be that way for long" then I didn't say "we're all just like that"
because I did not want confirmation so I chose silence again (this is my favorite tactic
for avoiding incrimination also for making someone squirm) (this allows there to be less of me
inside but outside "my aura is taking over the room" -some guy from Brooklyn) and thought about the books waiting for me and how the coat on my back failing to keep out the rain (regardless of its being a RAIN jacket) was given to me by someone I love("d") ...
Spent a glass of wine staring at lines, spent a second glass of wine sketching a glass of wine - not a waste but not a production either (bad capitalist!) like the inability to emote in technologically purple hotel rooms because of course, blood can read cheeks and then I'd be guilty of unmentionable exchange (but in the name of poetry!) loud like sirens or change in pockets on the way to the square (I'll make it just fine) but is it walking or Uncle Vanya's borscht that smells sour? It's hard to tell in the exposed hours.
lines expose cunt abnormalities
also breasts resting in different places
I feel better about misplacement -
Seeing figs in their little paper crates at the grocery store makes me light and lusty again. I would have shrieked like a child at the sight had I not put on mascara and been masquerading as an adult already.
There are a few things (the moors in Scotland, real olive oil, Hemingway, black sand, painting wood, figs, strange liqueur, building a fire) that remind me of a time when I lived simpler (No no! of course not a time in this life...) They provoke in me a longing that comes from god help me to find out where. I look and as soon as the scent reaches me it is gone.
When I get home to eat the rich little delicacies, provoking devils, lovely mid-day adventures, I have no time, no patience, to peel the skins off with a paring knife. Instead, I slice them in half and run my fingers over their silky seedy flesh, warm with the walk home in the sun before scraping and sucking the insides from the out. Eating them is like a sigh of relief. They slide straight to the sad spot in my belly and make me easy for just a moment but like the scent of belonging, the effortlessness dodges away before I can call it my own.
Now the longing remains.
The next time I go to the grocery and see figs in their little paper crates I will be light and lusty again, I tell myself. There are fig seasons to come.
I stop myself short. I remind the light in my eyes to dim. Those of us who are familiar with life know that may not be true. Seasons to come are immeasurable, unknowable, and never guaranteed; easily jettisoned or recoursed or derailed; often late or early (timing is a mean old mistress) or not at all.
Though if fig season does come again, I hope I am not wearing mascara.
[On another note: To the Fig Tree on 9th and Christian by Ross Gay (here) is absolutely stunning and in perfect time for fig season and read it]
You can't untangle the mess
of your mind.
make a list of the items
to be individually considered.
There is no
your mind space will be
but you could
to tidy up
Everything is in my head.
The senses are dead. Something about my work goes here.