Three Generations

There are three generations in a room. The room is white. The people are white. The food is white. The first generation has rippled skin, says the third generation.

What is wrong with rippled skin? says the second generation.

It’s gross, says the third.

The second generation has rippled (wrinkled) skin and tattooed skin. The second generation has undeclared skin and skin that has been re-declared. The second generation has skin that they try to tear apart on a daily basis and skin they try to tend to. It is a daily struggle.

Why do you have so many scars, asks the third generation to the second.

Because I have lived, the second replies. But what they do not add is that each scar is from a different war within the body and mind. Some truths are not able to be told until. Until. When?

The first generation watches the third generation play. They do not play with imagination and paper. Their play is made up of wires and screens.

I can only concentrate on one thing at a time, says the second generation to the third. Can we unplug, at least while we eat breakfast? At least while we complete our sentences?

The third generation does not know what this means.

The second generation understands all about the ripples, the thinning of pockets and hair, the fear of government as rights are removed or excluded. They do not have extra food in their pantry. They cannot afford to throw that meat away.

The third generation wears t-shirts advertising liberalism and feminism and gay rights and trans rights and human rights and Black lives mattering, but when you ask them a question: What does dissent mean? They ask Google.

Cotton and flags have become the new voice of the movement.

The second generation listens to the stories reiterated by the first generation. They need to remember so that no one forgets.

The third generation wants to play with other third generations while the second and first watches.

This is youth, the first generation says. They can request what they want and the second generation will give it to them.

There will be a time, though, says the first generation, that they, too will run out. And we will be gone. And they will have the ripples and empty pockets they never thought would come to them. The outlets will be stuffed by the dissenters, and they will have no way to understand the answers. They will not know how to approach paper, because all they know are screens. The first generation will be just a page in their photo albums, if they ever get around to making one. The second generation will be lost somewhere in the woods, hoping to escape all the wires. And the third generation will become someone else’s first, ignored for lack of relevance, ignored for too many ripples, ignored for not enough incentives in their pockets. 

It

It was easier to do it myself,

press it firmly between thumb and pointer

pull out its uncertain taste buds

a planet of blood takes its place.

Or I could wait my turn–

as the rest of the women wait on line

each one, sucking on pliers

tongues torn out like paper.

If I am to be silenced,

I much prefer to do it myself

so I swallow my tongue

before they snatch it away,

digesting every word, every protest

every scream sewed into the muscle

still living inside me.

This Empty Bowl

from Sara Ahmed’s “Living a Feminist Life”: “An empty bowl that feels like an accusation can be the beginning of a feminist life.”

 

Inside, I put pieces of my hair that appear like loose, bloody windstorms. But isn’t it still empty? I use plastic scissors, because I want my fingers to struggle, as I cut away every claim on my skin that has been denied. I place that man’s voice who asked me why my arms were so scarred. I told him: I tried to kill myself. He said to me: You didn’t do it right. But isn’t the bowl still empty? I place laughter–my own–when fingernails like shovels dug beneath armpits behind knees to tickle. I shouted NO! because it was too much. You kept on you kept on because I was laughing. My NOs got folded in somehow. But isn’t it still empty? I practice expository essays each morning to train my voice into a deeper chord. Use punctuation and footnotes and even an alphabetized works cited to show the archival of trauma. Placed into bowl, but you said it just repeated itself. Isn’t the bowl still empty? I electrocuted my fingers and wrists in order to dig out the wiring trying to disconnect us all. Took photographs of all my stretchmarks because society seems to think they are extinct somehow. Mailed you the history of starvation to explain my discomfort with Western fasting culture. Removed the airbrushed bruising on my brain from every drug I ever used to help me escape. Put into bowl. Watched it disappear. Isn’t the bowl still empty? What does it look like to finally be full?

 

 

This is What a Feminist Looks Like

Let me start by saying that I always wanted to play the drums. But memory tells me that my mom/dad/both said: too loud, choose again. So I/they/none chose the clarinet. Upon reflection, it is a gorgeous instrument, which deserves far more respect than I gave it. But I wanted to play the drums and bash my palms against the rhythm. Gave up clarinet and found myself playing the only instrument I found myself actually good at………the radio.

Made a bunch of mixed tapes, figured out I could record I Love Lucy, A Different World, The Jeffersons and One Day at a Time on my tiny, black-and-white television onto a tape.

Cut to two decades later and I am playing an instrument again. Hello, ukelele.

Oh, one more thing. I’ve always wanted to be in a band. Like Green Day. Like Thompson Twins. Like ’til tuesday.

Then, David Lawton. And he said, hey, wanna? and here we are. And so is Zita Zenda. And of course, Starchilde.

We call ourselves……HYDROGEN JUNKBOX

Thank you to Kat Georges, of the marvelous three rooms press for taking this video.

 

Upcoming Performance: February 16th!

HYDROGEN JUNKBOX PRESENTS: THIS IS WHAT A FEMINIST LOOKS LIKE

WHEN? Friday, February 16th   Doors open 7pm/ Show promptly starts at 7:30pm        

WHERE? Dixon Place  161 Chrystie St  NYC  

This show is FREE, but please support this excellent venue and purchase a drink or two.

Hydrogen Junkbox is a collective of poets and musicians looking to inspire, experiment and find new ways to rhythmically enhance poetry. They presents a night of NEW music and poetry exploring feminism, consent and the weaponry of words featuring very special guests: fantastic poet Liv Mammone and musician extraordinaire Davey Patterson.

HYDROGEN JUNKBOX IS:

Aimee Herman is a queer performance artist, teacher, poet, singer, ukulele player and cookie drum player.

David Lawton is a poet, actor, singer, ukulele player and cookie drum player. He is also co-editor of NYC small press great weather for MEDIA.

Starchilde plays synth, drums, and anything else you’ve got on hand. He makes magic with beats.

Zita Zenda is a director, poet and guitarist.