consumption of the personal

photograph by performance artist Tracey Emin

Here is what I’ve done.
There is a ring. There is a sliced-out scream from forearm. There is a love letter. There are many love letters. There is a collection of bodies stained inside my underwear. There is a preference to live out loud on computer screen rather than in imagined silence of mind. There are sexual perversions hidden beneath bed. There is a collection of condoms in bathroom, bedroom, backpack, and back pockets of pants. There is a memorized poem about sofrito, chapstick and razorblades. There is a woman. There are many women. There is a man. There are disposed hairs growing inside knots. There is drug addiction. There is food addiction. There is sex addiction. There is an addiction to addiction. There is some gender stuff. There is an experimental approach to genitals and orgasms. There is a stolen memory, stuffed inside a sock drawer. There is an envelope of money. There is an unclassified stain. There are many stains. There is a revision of memories. There is a pile of notebooks. There are maps of directional patterns on tiny pieces of paper in pockets. There is a tambourine. There is a mix tape. There are many mix tapes. There is a passport. There is a phone number for a man that is no longer alive. There is a Fidgeon. There is an orchestra of padded bras, stockings, and false eyelashes identity. There is a purple vibrator. There is a history of mental illness. There is a pattern of lactose intolerance connected to lovers. There are lovers. There are many lovers. There is a soul mate. There is an un-mated soul. There is a remixed version of childhood. There is a pause. There is a hole. There are many holes. There is this life uprooted from poems and whispered assumptions and how about we workshop the time I lost my mind. Tell me I use too many semi-colons; tell me my imagery is too abstract and distracting; tell me I need to have a beginning middle and end…when I don’t even know how to exist chronologically?

the behavior of memory

I am searching for a break in the sky, some kind of knotted root with a long extension that I can grab onto. And although I am afraid of heights, I think I’m ready to be pulled up into the atmosphere and just dangle for awhile.

Here is the thing about memory. It arrives like a phone call.
Sometimes we remain too long and we run out of things to say or explain.
Sometimes the connection is so bad, you have no idea who is calling.
Sometimes, it is just a wrong number.

Here is what I remember:
There was a kiss between a pair of lips from New Jersey and ones who have lived in too many places to construct a formal mailbox. The rain was strong, though not enough to keep the drag queens and hustlers away from their favorite stomping ground. You pressed a ring onto a finger that never felt that kind of weight before. We walked several blocks to Greece and savored their cuisine. There was a zipper sewed into the sky that day, and some rebellious punk got hold of its end and unhinged the metal teeth. Cue: monsoon.

Here is what I remember:
Someone somewhere once told me that to remove the itch from mosquito bites, take finger with prominent nail, criss cross indentation into welt and this imprint will heal the discomfort. As I’ve gotten older, the bites have become bigger, louder, redder, and unlike most friends and lovers, they tend to stick around. My pale skin has been replaced by these violations. How much blood have they removed and am I better for it? Perhaps mosquitoes are meant to take some of our cells away to prohibit the overflow bubbling up in our bodies.

Here is what I remember:
A pounding thrust of body climbing up staircase with slurred tongue and teeth replaced by fumbling pills. I am going to workshop this memory and add in a crash of ambulance into childhood home. Shattered windows flying into exposed limbs and suddenly my family grows see-through. I will also add in a radio, plugged into purple-painted wall playing Whitney Houston’s, I Have Nothing. The walls fall down like flimsy velvet curtain and there is a realization that it is all just a music video stuck inside a family portrait of tragedy.

can’t run from myself/there’s nowhere to hide……….

Here is what I remember:
Love is a rerun of disappointments and I am traveling inside the warped images of myself. A woman kisses me with microwaved tongue: small and pre-heated. My organs search for the bright rainbow in my heart to grow neon again. Then, someone grabs onto my hip, presses their ghostly face against mine, whispers in my ear:
you removed that rhythmic contraption years ago.