TO GO ON IN THIS WAY

You know \ barely \ stripped and robbed even of the right to something possible here which is now humiliated too having dropped the kid gloves and fan and scurried away into the darkness. 

To go on anyway \ watering the succulents the wolflings in the tub the sweaters in the drawer the ghost-becauses bursting out of their containers because what is this moment but the terror of containment

& heroic scores & bills their menace even more insulting. Dear C, where is the petition to refuse our delusions? To go on writing bad checks their figures blurring together and in this way bleed like an army of witches eating cold cake with butter knives in front of the open mouth of the new year. To stay warm and listen. Dear dear, fan the fire.

Burn like insomniac chandeliers dripping blood on the banquet. Drop eggs into their caviar and Moët flutes their glassy ice age of blinded-by-whiteness. Deferred future bombs!

LADY SNOWBLOOD FOR PRESIDENT

Bloom magenta vengeance from a molten softness. To melt and refuse. To breathe and refuse. To weep and refuse. I can’t remember how to write a poem. To write bad documents and refuse. To see what’s coming and refuse it. 

If you want to express support for the audit to identify conflicts of interest there is an email, congrel@gao.gov, through which they are tracking people who are urging support.

DECOLONIAL AUDIT OF U.S. HISTORY FOR PRESIDENT

Dear future-B, when I was pregnant with you I had a dream: When I lifted my skirt I could shoot people with my vagina. It was a great asset given the circumstances—a card game, a room full of armed citizens. To express is to go beyond the body.

Dear Tree, at the stroke of midnight on my 40^th birthday, as if called upon by the ceremony of existential nausea, I barfed. It was a strange and somehow soothing glory. Earlier that night, the baby barfed on my sweater. At the clinic the next day she exploded so-to-speak beyond her diaper on my lap and up my sweater and down my pants and drip drip drip on the linoleum floor. They gave me scrubs to change into and I realized the truth of such defilement, the love that made it perhaps the most perfect expression.

To express is to exceed our borders. It is also a conveyance. I express milk for my baby and I express barf for history and its rhymes and in the void in my body where the baby had been is a wish for rhizomatic intelligence because it is a force beyond the formalization of that which has always been there in the so-called great hall

(Hi it’s hell (with tiny doors to nowhere)) where the despot in you from the seat of absolutes exhorts in the assailant voice “You should be ashamed of yourself. To go on crying in this way

STOP THIS MOMENT!” &

something in you submits. To do to do to do. It is a kind of paralysis. Dear love, it happens, it continues to happen, but there’s an echo (the echo and not its source) in that metallic stasis of another voice urging: move. All is flux.  Fuck his lists. Fuck his supplicants. Find your weeping people. They keep the water moving. They live like

MARGERY KEMPE FOR PRESIDENT

To cry is life to water the omen in this moment each teardrop a possibility in which you might incubate your revolutionary sentience, little golden keys to the growing garden doors, to have a body with its own secret sea.

FUCK THE FRESH TASTE OF FASCISM IN THE MORNING.