Who Said it Was Simple
There are so many roots to the tree of anger
That sometimes the branches shatter
Before they bear.
Sitting in the Nedicks
The women rally before they march
Discussing the problematic girls
They hire to make them free.
An almost white counterman passes
A waiting brother to serve them first
And the ladies neither notice nor reject
The slighter pleasures of their slavery.
But I am bound by my mirror
as well as my bed
see causes in color
as well as sex
and sit here wondering
which me will survive
all these liberations.
- Audre Lorde
The Politics of Dancing
All my purple life
I’ve wanted a black hole
Decimate your delicate
Way of being
Like a needy boyfriend
Revolts me to the core
Why must we discuss
All my purple my life.
She was trying to become a writer and discovering that this required large blocks of unstructured time. She drew the shades and read and masturbated and lit a candle at her desk. At night sometimes she used the automated sex ads on the phone. She liked that they could link her up with other outposts of loneliness around the city. She was living entirely within her head. For a while she experimented with keeping pets.
Navy glowing spotted
Sweet bird of proof
May I shit in the toilet
Of outer space
Little helmet, monkey skeleton
For a good ol time.
spray of stars.
A road trip without toilet paper
A bad breath dog
Hold the coats
Of old white men
Pasty scared and running
The future opens its mouth
Inside a language full of hate
Swallow the bile
Give your cucumber
Double A batteries
Give me a minute to delete your number.
There’s nothing left to talk about.
I make this face because I’m about to undress.
Oh hai! So wonderful to finally get to know you. Savior of the night. Amigo of my dreamz.
Lets fuck and hang out
Lets get stoned and rock church
Lets let hands do to mouths
Let us lift up our arms
The eyes of god are everywhere
Private eyes are
Love is to break
A glass of milk
On a black marble floor.
Gloria I reach to
Maria I suckle to u
I am so
In this shit
Lets get fetishy
Thorn in the jello
Whip cream on the waterbed
I like this part.
We are the dirty children grown up
We are the acid tabs blown up
We are the expired condom
Living life daily with the bitter pill of consciousness.
Lets be the wet towel on the bathroom floor
Fuck it anyway.
A thick slice
Hovering toward the tower
Of the skull of Hera
Of Electra’s great
Den of complex.
To be the serpent and the sword
To be the oppressor and
To be the well read asshole
At the asshole party.
To be the consumer
In the bow tie
With Jacuzzis on the side.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
Of lost door keys the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master,
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! My last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
-Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing isn’t hard to master
though it might look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Can You Hear Me Now?
I longed (dramatically) to DJ for you, but you never came over. I wanted to make sammies for you, kiss you, hug you, hold you, tap your nose with my fingertip and make collages. I wanted you to know me. I wanted to know being known. But look, I get it, it’s cool. Ramblin on and on and on. In NY on a night when sweat clung to my lip and brow, headphones on, a paramour beside me, no weed for miles, I heard your voice on the radio and smiled in the dark, the dawn deciding yet to yawn. You said my name. Touching all these things, making drawers for all these pieces, transform into these sentences, blossoming at the very least into a fictitious parable of love. I made a list of songs and each one knew your face. Your smile, a thing that rises and sets, the universe unfurling at your glow, grateful for it’s sweetness, your heart, a vessel, struggling against consumption, forgetting everything it knows.
And now when some girl, some smart pretty girl, who thinks she can be the one to change you, says, you’re a writer girl’s dream, has anyone ever written anything about you? You can think of me, chuckle and say, funny you should bring up such a thing.
Dreams steered her through the day and she needed the slight weight of morning vapor to protect her. She was trying to become a writer. Since she’d never been especially creative, the only way that she could think to do this was to transcribe the pictures in her head. She found that sometimes in the darkened room, the pictures moved outside her head and into her entire body, and these, she realized, were the good times. This was what she sought.
The Grass Was Greener
Tongue Tied Twisted
Earth Bound Misfit
I’ve done this
I’ve stopped before
Sliced bag of seed
Cracks of sound
That come in fits and jerks
Clogging up the corners of my
Fertilizing brand new blades
Just to cut them down.
I try to breath,
Not on your face (bright and stormy dark and warm)
I try to reconfigure
You are his mother
I love you devil
Hurt me with your focused fire
Your neglect and pain
Sharp, shape and edges
Slicing from one side to next
Until my mug
Is only that,
A cup of Lipton
I want you
A stand in
For what I can’t imagine:
And then I was like:
I think about the past ones, the ones that blew away, left their mark and even they, thought I could never undue a spell and just like that you came to show me up. To play a number on this soul game, to rub in just how wrong I always am. Now, all you are is my desire and ambition. Hunger unsatisfied, I could listen to the Floyd all night, paralyzed indecision, why can’t I just get stoned and forget? I know you never feel you never let yourself soaked in liquor all warm and tight never getting out until you dissolve, your liver a little spot in outer space the fishbowl of fire a thing you never got to know or show or use or be, you’re in the casket now with the other earth bound detritus and I am shiny tears wet rose stem inside the glass beaten back against a memory the time my purse filled with beer little swimming pool of death float to the surface and forget, maybe I want to save you because I saved myself and know deep down you’re the one that’s really living. Give me some of that. The water always flowing the endless river the nights remember. Because deep down, you’re the one I envy.
I mean, why be coy?
In the window
Outside my window
Shaped like a diamond.
Having men want to spend time with me makes me aware of how much I don’t want to spend time with other men.
I want it to be clear that when you call I silence my phone.
There is one man on this earth who could reach through the clouds and make me cum, but he’s not here.
Oh, you’re into Hip Hop, tell me about it.
No, please, show me how to use a record player.
He’s probably getting drunk and not thinking about me.
I’m probably standing here, doing this,
Wishing I was too.
Thinking about you.
Faced with roomfuls of acrylic paintings of computer chips and monochromes, she learned to cultivate a dreamy vacant stare. She learned to free-associate and verbalize nonsequitors, and finally drop the names of first-wave minimalists with a slight inflection upwards at the end, as if the names themselves were challenges or questions. “Robert Ryman, Donald Judd?” She had the vaguest idea who these artists actually were.
The Cannibal’s Canción
It is our custom
the person we love.
Taboo flesh: swollen
the scrotum the vulva
the soles of the feet
the palms of the hand
heart and liver taste best.
Cannibalism is blessed.
I’ll wear your jawbone
round my neck
listen to your vertebrae
bone tapping bone in my wrists.
I’ll string your fingers round my waist-
What a rigorous embrace.
Over my heart I’ll wear
a brooch with a lock of your hair.
Nights I’ll sleep cradling
your skull sharpening
my teeth on your toothless grin.
Sundays there’s Mass and communion
And I’ll put your relics to rest.
- Gloria Anzaldua
Just so you know I take you very
seriously. Teasing at your expense is
shitty and ignorant. You’re not a
funny ha ha dude. You’re for real. You’re
fucking brilliant, like, people don’t get
it. But I do.
I like gossip. Don’t you? I know you
do. Fondle it. You delicious
With kindness I creep.
You’re so fucking hot. Flipped inside out. Just so you
The kindergarten boy who drowns barbies
bakes sand cakes and screams all day.
You’re nuts. I can tell.
Slip n slide rainbow, delicious purple
bruise inside this inner thigh
Little thumb imprint, just so you know.
You are the pilot of my fantasies.
Head thrown back flesh finger ripple
After you since 1985.
There are exactly two of you who think these sentences bear your marking.
And each of you is right and each of you is wrong.
These sentences are about me, and the fantasy of who you aren’t.
And if you have to ask yourself, I’ve left you in the dark
Because you never sent me spinning the way that ego thought.
Crippled memory, relearn, feel my way back to a fuck
Remind my body, which way to fall
and always miss the mark
I do love this game.
The passing of time is not a marker of importance. It’s the frenzy of this madness.
Exorcise me. Send me back to God.
Fingers pulling lips apart, wet and expectant.
Your breath sour and warm.
I could never hate you, Soggy Brain,
Initial substantive mind screw
Satan in the morning, strawberry jam at night.
In the morning time
Swift green blue
Slice of sky
Taken from a photograph
You have never seen
Stolen from an archive
But knows the story takes it’s
Time to ripen on your page.
one day you’ll want your friends
says my mother
one day, she says
you’ll want me.
Is that so,
And hand her all my money.
In the distance
There are shapes
Cutting and butting at my seams
Ready to reflect
The sad state of my affairs
I like to fuck
With my eyes closed and the
and in that moment
Dark and fuzzy
I touch myself and shiver
I’m not living
call it work
call it necessary
call it what it is.
Every time you hurt me
It feels familiar
So I keep going back.
The thing that struck the woman most about living in Los Angeles was how things happen but nothing quite adds up. The way it’s possible to be in regular contact with another person, to talk on the phone, to maybe see each other once a week and then for no discernible reason the contact stops, the person drifts entirely out of range. Perhaps it was depression?
Cutting across the River of America
Just the steer, no beans.
Bouncing across the lake
Happy as a clam
Bud Light’s spitting out behind us in the water spray
Turning into buoys rippling in the waves.
J.A.L: Your Initial Substance
– For Jon, undoubtedly
Just this, I,
Create a prison.
Bars between this superhighway
This doghouse of death.
Because she didn’t care if people liked her and seemed to notice what went on, most people saw her as a monster. In Fantasy, she liked that somebody else could play that role.
To make a metaphor so big and bold that you drain it of it’s subtext, create an overarching irony where all codes of romance are exposed. Fantasy is a parody, a carnival.
Dandy Asshole Fever
I’m Still Here
“Mitigate this agony”
Like, string cheese in outer space
Curl, on the brink
Of Heaven’s muck.
Un Poquito Violin
Nobody loves me
Let me clarify
My mother loves me
My father, in his own
misguided way, tries to love me
My girlfriends love me
My boy friends love me
But you don’t love me
And you are everybody.
I eat that absence,
I shake hands and smile
I mourn my tits
Once so beautiful, titans of flesh
Wasted on a not smart boy
Obsessed with his own reflection,
He was really dumb
I’m so mad, three years tossed
I like tiny tits he said.
Who will love these melons?
Who will kiss this flower?
Who will tread their fingers up and down the Valley of Hips?
Their tongue across this body?
Like a book without a reader
I can’t walk away.
My eyes like apple dolls
Wrinkle over time
And I’m racing against it
trying to get the light bulb screwed in right
I’ve never been to Europe
Or flown overseas
Or had a passport stamped.
I’ve driven to the same museum a thousand times
Looked at the same Rodin’s
Loving them each visit
So they never feel unloved.
And because of this I’m sad
See, I really feel I’ve lost something
and you, you want me to spend these
last few moments of agency
of youth, organizing a way to get to your wedding?
No, no I have finally climbed to the top of the mountain
And I’m not comprising or coming down for anyone.
But can’t there be a way of translating allegory into psychological realms? The Master and the Slave, the Monster and the Slut. All the little dramas of romance get batted back and forth between these poles.
Romance, desire, context expectation loop back and forth between us through our roles. Multiple paradox yielding triple penetration. The game is totally complete within itself. Unlike ordinary sex, Fantasy is an act, and not a metaphor of love.
Hitching A Ride
I’m reaching toward u
everything inside me,
around my daydream
sends me to u
on a cloud of shame.
All these signs
Breakin my mind
No one knows
What it’s like
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes
From Soho down to
I’ve played that fist and finger game.
French New Wave
Chill, how? On ice
Clinking in glass
ON the screen her violet
through this black and white.
Torn like V.C Andrews
All hands and wails, all dicks
This sweet Audrina
This pitcher of tea
Those sad weepy trees
Oh Louis, Oh Lestat
Cast out like demons
Gay man on the utubes
Pushed in the forehead, with an open fist
A palm tree
Cast out! I cast u- text style- out!
“I taught myself”
I understand language,”
Wall of tape
And slaughtered trees,
Like a pre-teen girl, with a high school
You cough and smirk
Tell me, I whisper,
About your hotel stationary,
Glass cubes, and
Show me these things,
Your harem of tits
Lick the page,
Off you get, on
Let me show you
Vintage Elizabeth utubes
Ann makes vegetarian sushi
I read an essay on subjectivity
Cool Ranch Derrido
Instafame with the Hot Pockets
Writing poems like Jon
High five on all fours
I’m totally linked in. Tell
me all about it, at the Big Judy ball.
I’m not here to help you sell bananas.
This is an advertisement.
Get off the cross
I want to kill u with it.
(I), understand the risks.
An Open Letter to Every Man, I Men, I Have Loved
Except One, He did this and is fucking killing it.
(Well two, but that guy’s fucking crazy)
I know you aren’t afraid of me because you understand me
Even if you refuse to dance.
This shit, it’s killing you
So talk about it
Because you’re dying.
It almost killed me
And is still killing me
Just in slower increments
And my punishments are hilarious.
Go a little Molly Ringwald
Get over yourself
You’re gonna cry a lot. But you already do.
(but for a bummer)
Cum then forever.
It gets magical.
I can do shit like this.
I can love you from here.
By Nicole Darling
It occurred to me that I don’t date. Have never dated and will probably never date. And that I will die alone, a snow angel, blue indention in a white landscape, glowing wingspan on a glinting sun, the tired work of this busy body, never stopping, caught forever moving toward an unknown heaven.
Take from this ice fossil all the beauty you can hold inside two hands and build a snowman beside me, and together, here, we will find one another, frozen in our destinies to never melt away.
Free of needles, far from liquor, runoff water, sockets spilling with uncertainty. Salty brine of the dirty eye ocean, never turning back it’s tide. In the stillness of this wintery grave let us breath the particles of heat through some tired lungs, exhale all these insecurities anxieties and fears. Let us watch this black crow leave footprints in the hard packed rainbow of the sun’s reflection, a shimmer through a Fir, puffing frozen back into the air. His perfect wings feathery and wet ascending toward some crest, where other lovers wait for him to bring his silent song.
In a disembodied floating space, Fantasy offers little pockets of theatricality and connection. So long as they are playing, two people are totally accountable and listening to each other. Fantasy radically preempts romantic love because it is a practice of it.
To see this fact as cold or cynical is as naive as thinking writing ought to be “original” or that speaking in the first person necessarily connotes any kind of truth, sincerity.
But why do I hate myself? We hate ourselves? Spend all this time absorbed in the distraction of an emotionally unavailable baby wipe? That can’t even wipe it’s own ass? Messy on the dance floor, spilling precious drops of Dionysus nectar on the way back to the temple? The pixilated ouch? Oh you’re not so special (you are), you’re only the latest in a long line of Soggy Brains, it’s me, not you, I mean, my emotions make appointments to look into the mirror cancel last minute and never call back. I roll a sloppy joint but pack a tidy bowl.
Someone important has died. At a Holiday party, a friend of this important person, says, and the real tragedy is that to make it out alive, to make it to the place that he had reached, you have to find ways to get there, to cope, to hold your head up and walk into the room. He was queer and brown. Self made. And that is painful. It takes away. I want to say something important, but I don’t, someone else is standing beside us, and so I nod. It is however, that I understand. I feel the gold thread coming out of the top of my own head and connecting me to God and that thread is almost always being cut. By myself, by others, ripped away and pulled asunder this umbilical cord of light. Also, fuck you and your hostility toward faith, when you are born with so very little, sometimes God is all you get. Put that in your pipe, you privileged fucks and undermine something else. I’d like to tell you a story, in plain language, one that doesn’t fall back on metaphor. A way that requires another type of reading, a way that seems so simple to so many Others, but perhaps, might take you a minute to understand. Breathe in the contradiction, it gets easier over time.
I’ve learned that to desire is distasteful. I have wanted so much my entire life. In the first grade I mouthed off at the school bus driver, finding but not understanding then, that negative attention would get me a response. I lived in a silent house of anger and spastic explosion. I made my own way. I wanted her to like me, the bus driver, but instead I pissed her off. I repeated this behavior late into elementary school each time it failed, each time I tried. I became a liar. The truth was never good enough, or simply ignored, I was meant to be put aside, too loud, too needy, too present. I made bad feelings, guilty feelings and so I was asked without words to shrink away. Today the more you ignore me the more frenzied I become. The saddest part is that I’m pretty chill and fun, kind and smart, forgiving and warm, and by the grace of god, not bad looking. My legs and tits are more than decent. For this I’m grateful, but anyway, vanity, another dagger down the road. I came to accept that nothing I did mattered and so I was doused with the fire of anger and revenge. They’ll be sorry when I slit my wrists, they’ll be sorry when I swallow that bottle, I’ll show them. The skunky smoke of self-destruction floated down the hallway and still nothing. He was gone by then, Island man fucking Howlies at the Hilton. She was busy, depressed and wanted to be left alone. The door was always closed. I held my hand up to it and felt the heartbeat of a silent room. I went back down the hallway and flipped on the teevee, it’s a miracle I can write, or so I’ve been told, because I’m not much of a reader. I like to watch.
My mother never told me about my identity. I knew only that she wasn’t white, I don’t think I even knew the word Mexican. My grandfather, who came to live with us and sent me to Catholic school with his veterans’ checks and helped my mother pay our bills, never used the word. He’d been the grounds keeper at a courthouse in the small town of La Junta Colorado for fifty years, and nick named Juan by his white co-workers, simply because he was brown and his last name was Valdez. And so he became Juan Valdez, the coffee man. His name was Laurence and our entire family called him Larry. But from the sixties on, all that changed, he was Juan, and so Juan I knew. Some of my own family I’m almost positive self identifies as white and even that kicks up confusion, shame, proclaiming we are descendents of Spaniards and therefore European. Well, of course we are, so is every other non-indigenous Mexican in Mexico. Shame and History are intertwined, that is the true American narrative. It wasn’t until elementary school, I was always drawn to Mexican friends, I felt most comfortable with Stephanie, Erika, Angie and Mari, that I understood the history of the Southwest, the purchase of the treaty of Hildago, the Spanish ancestors who came and made the Cosmic Race, once the property of Spain, then the property of Mexico, now the property of the United States, never owning anything except the trauma of becoming. I know now, that I am Nuevo Mexicano. Itself a group still grappling with the politics of what that even means. But for so long, I just never knew, and so there was a part of me, always feeling dirty and stupid in the company of my father’s blonde family, and not knowing what to say when a group of white school mates started in on bile racist epitaphs, not realizing I was in the room, separate from them, standing in the circle, but not completing the ring.
It took me years to hear my voice. And Tori Amos got me there, and the Wizard of Oz got me there, and Howl got me there, grabbing small ephemera on the climb. And so I guess what I’m trying to say is that I spent the first half of my life a shadow self, a long reflection on the pavement, but like Peter Pan, not knowing how to connect. I was missing, and then when I learned of my other half, it’s taken more years to wipe clean the blood of history, to see it’s true face.
It’s not that she didn’t want me to know, it’s just that shame is buried so deeply it moves from one generation to the next, my grandparents only wanted her to belong, to have the same privileges of those around her, her white counterparts, and so, pretty and smart, introverted and curious, white she became, or so they tried, simply by not discussing the past. The past though is a serpent that winds it’s way into a house at night, a thing that used to be an adobe, and her parents, my grandparents, were themselves orphans and alcoholics, they stumbled and left her vulnerable to the snake, who waits and knows his turn will come, and so she to was poisoned with the bite of shame.
Maybe you think my writing about this is a plea for attention? It wouldn’t be the first time I tried to matter, tacky or not your thing. Maybe you think it’s pedestrian and embarrassing, especially when I could easily walk through these doors that you’ve opened for me. But how can I walk through these doors and leave part of myself behind? It’s my truth, and because I’m here, and to be quite honest, was here before you, it becomes your truth too. And no, I’m not looking for a man.
Show don’t tell
But what If I do?
What if I say,
Staring at the sun, paralyzed
tears, spatializing on these cheeks,
Covering their own tracks
Grooved deep into the tissue
Does it feel less, sting more?
Am I easier to dismiss?
can we call it important, now?
It’s like a prize inside your crackerjacks.
To all the liars: Your truth is mine.
Adrian Piper, The Mythic Being, I/You/Her, 1974
If not all then some if some then all.
If not all then some if some then all.
If not all then some if some then all.
If not all then some if some then all.
If not all then some if some then all.
In the Nedicks
In the teal booth
I am the women
I am the girls
I am the brother
I am the Lorde
I am you
I am me
I am two halves
Pulled apart like
A soft parsimmon
Coming to mush inside your hands
You cannot spread neatly on the sour dough,
The piece the waiter drops behind the counter
And brings out smiling
And the girls have no idea
They are both and everyone,
In the crystal ball they
Are trapped and chocking
Persecuted and persecuting
that we are
Brown water running down the drain
In the artist’s sink
Across the street
Behind the bus stop
Where the young lady lawyer
Has just stepped off,
Ready to fight, run
For something she has only read about
And the poet knows the silence
Before the storm, looks down and writes another line.
- For Asher
I wear your chains like jewels
Take your dismissal as a chance to sneak in
I have come to covet your lack of faith in me
And turn it into fuel
I understand so little is understood
Of what a fucked up girl can do
Like transform herself into the smartest
person in the room,
And you’re all, whoa, wait, where’d she come from?
And I’ll lay the key inside your hand and say,
They were your chains all along, and
thank you for these gems.
Now this isn’t going to be a little poem, okay? This is going to be a fat o’l paragraph and I might spell shit wrong and punctuate wrong and offend you with my lack but I’m taking up this goddamn space,
And I’ve never studied with the masters most of them are dead and even if they weren’t they probably wouldn’t want me anyway. Let me tell you what its like to wound someone its bad. Did you hear that? Read that? Real bad. I know. I’ve done it first hand hurt the ones that love me most participated in the ruin of other human lives. Real evil inexcusable shit. Hurt people hurt people. I learned that in AA, in NY where I sat beside Phyllis who lived through the 70’s on the Lower East Side and had AIDs and wore a bedraggled leather jacket and a tracheotomy and brought me white lilies on my two year anniversary and held my hand and patted it beneath those flickering fluorescents in that moldy hospice room and called me baby as I sobbed and cried and tried not to push her away the feel of her frail arms her spindly little fingers and that pungent smell that wafted from her mouth like metallic rot and her yellow jaundiced eyes and white film that pulled between her dry cracked lips. And I never call her or check on her and I’m afraid that she is dead. And that kills me. Get it? It KILLS me. Each day I try to say the right things to not be too much to not take too much to not feel so much and it’s hard, okay? Not all of us are born with perfect brains. Some are fizzy wisps and curly brains, broken brains and brains on sidewalks that never get to think again and my brain is a noodle turned to mush, left to drown in my own stupidity and when I finally got around to checking in they sat me on that crinkly white piece of paper on that rubber plastic table and I had that white gown on bare assed and they shook their heads certain I had really done it to myself but my liver was all fine! No calcified rot or shrinkage, I made it out alive!
And I’m not interested in trying to badass myself or tell you about a childhood of getting smacked or shooting crack and lemon juice and Bonnie Brae and 6th in the late 90’s, early 2000’s MacArthur Park when it was just a place that I bought drugs at 3 am or the drive thru, dear god, the drive thru, a van with a Winnie the Pooh blanket covering the windows and you’d pull up at any hour parked 24/7 a young brown girl, maybe 10 would pass the rock and you’d drive away implicit in her damage, a rip in her wound and now when I go to your galleries your museums I sort of remember that stuff but not so much because in bits and pieces it does slip away but there is still something inside me that just wont let go. Her life.
And now I’m here trying to tell you how much hate I have inside, how much pain I have inside and I don’t know what SAT book I bought because I never bought one and I don’t know what to say when you say you backpacked through the west indies or once got stuck in Berlin and honestly not much offends me, except perhaps your continuous offense on behalf of people you have never met, and maybe because my own voice was missing for so long and I just want everyone to have a chance to speak for themselves even though I’m aware it doesn’t always work that way and I don’t know what to tell you except to lie and build this life around myself that never really happened and if you want to know the truth here it is, I am just a woman who used to be a girl that fucked up and made it somehow through the back door to where you all are now. But we are not the same, you and I, we are simply not the same and every time were face to face I think you see right thru me
And that’s okay, but it’s hard to live with and sometimes I just need a little extra time to reconfigure every morning and start anew.
And it’s shame okay? Its just shame. And I’m just trying to grab out to anyone, someone who wants to share it with me, before I too blow away and I’m just these words left on this page, for another set of eyes that will never remember Phyllis and the thumping sound her oxygen tank made coming slowly up the stairwell and the way she hacked and coughed and smiled like life was just this fucking gift, when she made it to the top. And I need to leave her here because she meant something in this world. She meant something to me.
Appropriated and altered text taken from the essay, Emotional Technologies from Video Green by Chris Kraus, Semiotext(e) 2004
Opening black eye, image by Marianne Williams, 2002, http://mariannewilliamsphoto.com/home.html. <