March 17, 2009

Droopy lids are a lie because my eyes are wide open. The fire has cooled to sparkling embers and it feels goooood.
I wonder what tonight will look like --
will it look like fear of my bedroom (which is more vague unease than fear)? Or will it look like staying up late? Will I laugh tonight? Will I get my period tomorrow?
Turmeric stains my shirts and underpants.
This cool flame is nice, but also scary. But it's time to do everything wrong. It's time to ruin my life.
And it's also St. Patrick's Day. A fool of a holiday. Egregious cultural & historical errors. Egregious Catholic imperialism.

Someone has gotten on this bus with McDonald's french fries. I want to eat them and remember how soft & wet with oil they used to be. It all tasted good, McDonald's. How was I supposed to know it was bad for me?

My hunger is devouring me! It has nothing else to munch on.
Walking past Johns Hopkins everyday awakens long latent & unknown (unconscious) cultural conditionings -- marry a doctor. I thought it was just a particular class of people, a particular segment of Staten Island population who would teach/genetically implant in their daughters that desire. Now I know it was something in the water.
But you know as well as I do, it's not just Staten Island where doctors are coveted. It's also in movies and TV shows.

I only see weird nothing out these windows, and two people on the bus are speaking unamericanly. My stomach speaks to me like an American stomach, and sometimes I Americanly listen.
St. Patrick's Day means nothing to me today, but last year Mexicans in Fruitvale drank Pacificas and set off fireworks to celebrate the ancestral saint.
But what they were really celebrating was themselves. Their particular bodies and the particular ways those specific bodies would feel after being sufficiently drunk. They were celebrating their own love of being alive; their own drive to merge consciously with the rest of the universe. They're doing better than I am.

I celebrate nothing. I sing no songs and celebrate nothing. I live to love the song you sing me, but not even that, really. I celebrate nothing & sing no songs. There is nothing to laud because I am terrified of you and terrified of me. There is nothing to lose and there is nothing to celebrate.
I wish my vagina could open up wide enough to take in all of this whole world, and all of the ways you are beautiful. But I don't have enough blood in my body to open up at all, let alone a world's worth. The vagina, after all, is not the portal. It is the womb-space, after all, that first births the baby out of nothing.

An unborn baby is still a baby, and it is everyone's human right to kill when necessary. And anyway, everyone needs to die, one way or another. So God Bless those lucky children who only ever know the pure joy and comfort of their mothers' insides and who are then granted a perfect experience of death.