Friday, March 29, 2013

Poem, for Then

Selene

Literal ladders to the fire
ignited slow and hard…..
kindling
against me from behind
as the gargoyle floats
blaze on by, Southern vampiric
sun beams into shadow, night
succumbs, bends post-apocalyptic
carnival, thousands cramped together
Endymion ’06 and
you
one rung down, while I lean back
into the only gravity ladders grasp, fingers
latched fast, ever so imperceptibly
enabling thirstyatmosphere, dizzy here
Need you
and they can’t see, the pleasure
gyrating the center of this star,
but we’re conscious, too, of distant sanctions
best served once masks are removed, of
a coupling we cannot—
just the cusp, lost
to this crowd, borderline violet-soaked time,
so far flung from August eruptions
remember when I thought I’d never
see the city
that captivates us here even
as the bawdy goddess declines
and our limbs hang loose, vines. Later,
you fall, something sprained,
guilt
to pain, regret
washed away, though today
we cannot reach what was left aside
to accommodate flames flickering
temptation’s sweet sickening
and so it goes,
in your fashion, a kiss
on the cheek greeting becomes
arm taut ‘round torso, a look
we have to hold
to invisible rungs now, to
anonymous movements, to where
I cannot read your eyes, their

Tuesday, March 26, 2013

These Precious Things

I find it hard to believe we are living in a moment where a court is debating what people are allowed to do in their personal lives--well, they and legislators and random males with random ugly suggestions do that to us women all the time, but--oh, right, I keep forgetting--we're not really people.

Our white male masters do enjoy lesbians, though, albeit of the obscene desperate muppet mainstream porn variety, so perhaps this will be a factor in today's decision (logic and justice certainly haven't been thus far, outside of within nine states). A decision that they shouldn't be making. Because there shouldn't be this level of oppression, especially given how we tout ourselves as the world's most amazing democracy ever and all.

I guess I'm just at the point where, while I will be very happy and relieved when same-sex marriage is legalized, I'm fed up with the bigotry, the meddling. I'm hoping this is the fatigue one feels at the end of a debacle.

These rights should not be theirs to give and take.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Another Punchline for Your Jokes About Rape

Tied

We’re bound
together
by an act, one night
indelible.

Do you dream
about me?
Do you remember me
the way I
remember you?

Did you tell your friends
about the night we spent?
Was it good for you,
the things you made me do?

Did my struggle
excite you, did you get
hard when I told you
it hurt, when I said

stop

when I gasped
for breath,
when it all
spun black?

They must have
fulfilled you, the things
you forced me into.
You were still there
the morning after,
when you brought me, bruised,
the pineapple juice
I could not smell
for one thousand days.






*This poem was first published by Other: _________ in 2005. I'm posting it again now due to, sadly, how hilarious Americans, including some men who are ostensibly my friends, find rape jokes and references--and, by extension, my own rape, and that of both women and men I love. I'd much rather hear myself than them on this subject. It does lead one to wonder, though: would they point and jeer if they happened to have seen us being raped, too, or is it just funny to hear the jokes later that they are making at our expense, whether they know it or not, whether they care or not--and, given Americans' depressing and at times overwhelming silence in deference to the bully, to where all I can hear is their canned laughter at the bullied, how can I or anyone who's been raped, and/or anyone who's loved anyone who's been raped, male or female, possibly assume they see us as anything other than cannon fodder, much like our rapists did/do/will? It wasn't being assaulted that made me feel this way, but what I assumed was a basic inherent human decency that doesn't strike me as particularly remarkable. And yet this decency no longer seems so basic, or so inherent.

Friday, March 08, 2013

Stalwart Brooklyn