Is it really “gendering” to recognize a gendered pattern? To notice that certain channels of literature are gendered? To notice that violence is gendered? To point at a number, a majority. To say these things? Is it another form of ~identity politics~ or it is noticing an existing reality? Why do some people grow so frantic by this questioning?
It started with a collective itch, absorbing unseen elements. Seeking and searching, we all left and met here. Hopeful the unknown would be better than the known. But still craving, switching spaces. On to the next psychological shift. Give us options, and we’ll name the poison. The united states of faces falling to the ground. Another cage of syringed bodies. Just human. Still animal. Sure, we can migrate to a new state. We can evolve. But what’s next? Mental awareness morphing into mind control. He talks like a robot. A meditative/medicated existence, far removed from the jolts of the past. Blacking out the rising sun. Looking out turns in. Don’t let them see muted emotions. Fear and insecurity tucked into a belt. Veins popping out. Red with misplaced anger. Blue with pain. A splitting people. Either you care about others or you don’t. They say it doesn’t affect them, it isn’t real, but their children will singe. Blur this dirty scene, a failed humanity experiment. Phase from consciousness. Lean on the mind and leave reality. Or leave the mind and enter reality? Maybe it’s not that simple. Who cares if we can turn it all off? Focus on the breath. An unthinkable chance for many. Those who cannot escape. Those before us. Stoned apes eating mushrooms. Circling around the fire. Making sense of sounds. They couldn’t afford to shut it all up/off. Why do we think we can?
Mixed thoughts and feelings from the last few days. A prose poem about the Kavanaugh hearing & repressed memories of sexual assault.
Drinking parsley tea, watching the hearing. Disgruntled by the dirt in the details. The shit in the obvious. Read this, mister. You should be worried we don’t believe lies like they did before. Muddy the facts and make it about his résumé (cool), his basketball practice (well done!), his grades (congrats!), and wait, his faith (still his, not this). But sir, one thing does not lead to the other. Let us explain in simple logic. Boil it down for you. Heat up the water please. I need some more tea for this anxiety. If he lied about that, then would he lie about this? Distract from the past. I don’t even wanna think about him anymore. Maybe buying a new bra will help me ignore. Can always fall back on this capitalistic bliss. Our small is their extra large and it’s starting to seem like we’ve bitten too much. “Oh you don’t like underwires?” laughed the salesperson, “that’s cute.” This isn’t working. Flashback. Manhattan, 2011. 2012? Couldn’t even tell you the year, let me check my calendar. Flashback. The guy who drugged me, pulled down my pants, and threw me in a room with his friend. Woke up on the bed, from open eyes to open eyes, with him behind me trying to do something. Still not sure what he did. Fuck that kid. Fuck all of you. Few of my exes too. The one who wouldn’t take no and the one who told me to go. To be quiet. Who gets to show rage in such a high place? Oh wait, can I show my emotions now or should I hold off a bit? Please oh please keep telling me how to be. Ha. “Indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter.” Truth and lies can both cry. It doesn’t matter if you “like” or “don’t like” politics. Let’s call this place the divided states. Rewrite the compromise, draw a new line. Really wouldn’t give a damn, just preserve the land. Or let it burn and I’ll escort you to those fiery gates of which you believe, but don’t worry, you’ll still wake up in your bed tomorrow morning. Smash open the eyes on your head. Everything will be the same. Welcome to yourself. May that face never change; no one will ever know your name. This was not written for you, or you. But, you. We see you.
The sign of her existence is the mournful writing in the messages she sends to herself. She tests herself in her new language and weighs the man’s corpse on the scale of her heart.”
A Musical Hell