I.
There is a moveable stillness of spirits here
trapped in an inescapable misery.
Barbed wire around fingers and toes
swaying back and forth over me
Silent spirituals rolled off dry, invisible lips
swollen tongues
parched with the ashes of ancestral dust.
…and my own people – victims of genocide
three times over
Jews – Tsalagi – Irish
ancestors with blisters on heels
roughened calloused fingertips
lay beside them in these backwoods.
Fallen by the hands of power that gripped us
by force.
and I slept, in and out of whispers that night
blood dangling from fingertips as they floated above me
whispering low
my palms never seemed to stop sweating fear.
Hairs on the back of my neck stiffening up with terror
from the naked invisibility
of slave ghosts filled with fear and dread, inescapable.
Sleep came to me that night
horrid and aching
my body rejected the crude environment
I awoke
sobs hitching
burning in my throat
silent screaming
in my ears.
I rose, released toxins from my body in the bathroom
ran outside
darting in all directions.
I spied rich tourists so pleased to be inside
sugar-coated space so
(a)historical
I retched at their ignorant pleasures as they took pictures with
hooped-skirt-wearing-wannabe-Scarlett docent.
Plantation life reenacted
painstakingly bright
reworked to display only the most pleasant attributes
the good slave owner
the Faberge eggs
the Romanesque
or perhaps
the pink and green Creole architecture
and the representation of hospitality in the form of a pineapple-shaped
lampshade.
II.
On the tour, the docent
speaks in flat monotone.
She tells me, the lone tourist on this plantation,
that it’s frequented by
would-be Goth folk seeking out its ghostly inhabitants:
the white child and his poisoner, Chloe,
a house slave whose ear was
severed
by a rusty knife
wielded by her master because she was eavesdropping.
Insanity must have gripped her hard and fast
her ghost now appears
stuck and pitiful
in between two buildings or
on the roof of a building that leans a bit to the side.
Yet here I am researching docents
questioning historical representations
unearthing my own shame
embarrassment
disgust
at this: our bloody history linking
past to present
dream to actuality
fantasy
to stark
reality.
Playing Outkast in the background hip-hop blaring
So Fresh So Clean
My boy Devin in the background with his Game Boy
fingers plinky planky plunky on the controls.
My sickness in the foreground.
Honey Loquat Syrup in my chest
soothing soothing
sometimes too-sweet on my tongue.
I feel groovy and bouncy.
I feel sick and chokey.
I feel nauseous and nervous.
I am bored
filled with thoughts of academic suicide.
I do not want this.
I need this.
I have this.
I hate this.
What is this?
You said this.
It is this.
She took me in her cupped hand
walked to the edge to toss me off a long cliff
my mind drifts
mist spraying up from
frustrated waves
crashing on a barrier
misunderstood.
Thoughts of me thoughts of she.
Thoughts of we.
I thought it would be different for me.
I made like a bandit through the hell-trail of academe.
I thought I could burn a Harley up the halls of the Ivory Tower
like a bat outta hell
tattoos streaming down my arms
through my sleeves
down my legs
growling deep belly sounds loud enough only for my dead brother
Gibson
who follows me everywhere I go.
Nay, I keep my ink tucked safely away
so as to avoid
being eyeballed-questioned.
my Harley wannabe Suzuki Intruder rolls up on the sidewalks
my students are afraid
looking at me askance
I know professors who were once so excited about my work
now look at me sideways
don't make eye contact
my status as grad student
reveals something so sinister about them.
…and I am out dyke power mama
my young boy is proud
toting giant signs:
I love my dyke mom and her girlfriend
…and I am out ex-junkie
I talk about living on the street
my head using the crusty rocks of the S.F. Marina for a pillow
rigs at my feet
faggot hooker boyfriend spooning me for protection.
…and here I am doing it
writing it.
I write the lyrics and post the comments and do my job.
I show up and I show off and I pretend that
yes
this matters.
Important work, this is.
So do it
do it
do it
So it's another addiction
predilection of the future
pouring through my fingertips as if totally distinct from my mind and
can I possibly write this
just
without
thinking because
it would be
so easy.
Easier to be a junkie again
copping on the corner when I lived on Etna and Polk
hobbling down Polk street
away from the Wharf
towards the junkies where they were always waiting for me:
hey girl, wanna do a trick? you'd make money
and I'd say:
no, I'm cool but
yeah I'll stand watch for you while
you deep throat
little suit man before he
goes back to his wife and kids and
sits down to a steak dinner while you and I
dip Doritos
into microwave bean and cheese burritos.
Go ahead, girlfriend I'll be
right
here.
…and she would go and
I would watch up the tip of the alley
back and forth
up and down.
Oh how queer we really were
middle-Polk by the corner bagel shop became my home away from home and
here I am now
having to come to grips with that
as I type away
at the would-be academic forum
now that
THIS
matters.
it is.
and i am.
and i was.
and i always will have been.
