putting on a pot of coffee at eight. scraping dried glue from underneath my fingernails. making loops with my hair. starting a book together. reading robert bly and greek tragedy. getting epiphanies in the car for the play to be staged. 'two actors, facing forward...' giving things ordinary names. happy for christmas lights and funny shaped trees and thinking 'it was just spring and i was glad for the sun to be showing.'
come hither, again i'm painting now i'm stringing a web in my fingers i'm drinking coffee and sitting on the couch for hours i cut bangs in my hair i always wear a bun and large sweater i blow my nose i file my nails i'm staying up late and sleeping in dressing in black running around running my tongue along my coffee teeth i eat slices of bread run my fingers along the crusty edges of my eyelashes in the morning prop myself up with a pillow, saying good morn
climbing up one side of a gnarled, twisting tree just to get to the other side, a ribbon purple sky and waving hands out there of ones who were never told to cry. a flag in the air of one, a red rag grasped in the fingers for to scream of the rage. a scream of a whisper of a yelp of a plea not to screech but to inform of a voice not usually heard of a face not usually seen of a life not usually known or been to the other side. a flower turned inside out on the fancy table plate for the selected ones. looking through the bent back tulips and not only seeing how the other half lives but begging for it and how troublesome that is. being current measures of success are what we all dream for hope for scream and scream and scream for. leaning against the gnarled, twisting tree scratched bark on our backs and rain beginning to come only hoping to be safe under the bare arms of a dead tree that doesn't promise anything but whispering just to be. heels digging in the wet dirt, toes glittering with drops of dew, hands bracing the earth held up by the strong arms of a woman saying i will not apologize for the advances made by my people i will not apologize for demanding more i will not apologize for making anyone feel uncomfortable of my plight because measuring how far we've come is sweet and pure but it's not good enough anymore and asking questions why why why? why am i not paid as much as the man in my office doing the same job who just bought a new car? i have mouths to feed and trips to plan because i've been dreaming of the far away orient all my life why why why why do i not deserve that as much as the other? and why why why why am i crippled like the crippling dead twisting tree above me that i support my back upon? crippled for to make the bills each month each desire of mine getting further away because i'm sorry i can' pay. because i'm sorry honey, you're not strong enough. i'm sorry honey, it's a man's world. i'm sorry honey you're too pretty you're not pretty enough. well man, you gotta stop apologizing too because when did my looks and the beautiful folds of my vagina make me incompetent to handle what you do? when did my hips and my demeanor and the timber of my voice mean i am less? my daddy told me i deserve the best and these best aren't giving to the rest and rest can't rest because hell it's a man's world out there. but the ribbon purple sky doesn't care who i am it rains on everyone so let's take our lesson from the air and breathe deeply, sing loudly, thunder ravenously until every bone and every foot and every head has heard our voice, has felt our presence, has needed us to survive, has respected our product, who looks to us for omens and wisdom and guidance and strength and comfort. sing loudly into the open violent violet red rage sky until all is equal, until all has passed, until apologies are no longer needed and i beat on my chest with a thunderous cry we have overcome.
listening to led zeppelin and french music looking out of dark windows, wondering, big baggy shirts with large armholes perfume and gilded mirrors standing upright at the vanity. my black, shiny asian hair and my slippery long legs in my big bed swishing in sheets with books and clothes lying on top. wearing stripey things and forgetting to wash my face before bed. looking up at george harrison and thinking about gertrude stein. having long and drawn out detailed dreams about job interviews and waterparks and walking on city streets with no end. being solitary and obsessing over my next birthday and having the itch to leave. tickets to streetcar and new schedules and taking photos for christmas always thinking about church and eavesdropping on conversations in coffeeshops and thinking not much has changed around here. someone will still prescribe scripture to save my soul. a cup of joe to set my head straight again and a loving word from a friend and telling myself be happy be happy be happy be happy.