Absurd enormous tears of frustration!
These I wept during my recent illness,
a bad cold. "Wept" is incorrect. They
just leaked out. No emotion other than
frustration. Still, a sign of some excess.
White kids trying unconscionably to rap.
All I've done for the past five days is
talk about sex, with present, past, and
maybe future sex partners--sex people?
The subject is inexhaustible. The object
is to come to terms with it. The subject
is tied into every part of living. Tied in!
Is the object to normalize it in some way?
I was so repressed when I was an adoles-
cent and now it's endocrine revenge!
All of my friends, people in their 20s,
"dealing with it." (People of privilege
all of us in our 20s, "dealing with it.")
And living in New York City! This town
is uh full uh rats. I'm quivering with
sensation. I'm mastering oversharing.
There are cycles I can now name: taking
out the garbage. Bringing the garbage
back in. Exposure and immediate
withdrawal. Endless, endless capitulation.
Specificity heightens tragedy--accessible
specificity, and it also heightens comedy.
J. K. de la V., I remember you. You're
the one who grabbed me by the shoulder,
and you set that shoulder to the boulder.
And we never even got naked all the way!
You! You stole that kiss from me, and then
you disappeared. Now I want it back.
And I want them all back! When I think of it,
I can feel my body turn into a mouse body.
"Alas," said the mouse, "the whole world is growing smaller every day. At the beginning it was so big that I was afraid, I kept running and running, and I was glad when I saw walls far away to the right and left, but these long walls have narrowed so quickly that I am in the last chamber already, and there in the corner stands the trap that I must run into."
ReplyDelete"You only need to change your direction," said the cat, and ate it up.