Listen, I promise you, I have
no stake in this world. No
political affiliations unless
love is a political tool, unless
my body is a political tool,
unless my comrades are a
political tool. I have no
high stake in this world, no
children to want to leave
a better world to, nothing
but fucking & bookmaking
that is my legacy & it is as
undeniable as smoke; yet
may disappear like it too. I
turn on the news & not
owning pearls, I clutch my
fancy juicer to my chest
I gather around me my art
& my mirrors, my plants &
my price of the ticket—a bible.
I think they’re coming for
me. For it. For all my
million little nothings they
consider stakes in this world.
I got no gun, I got no pickup
I got no desire to burn the
world; I don’t own the world
I own stand mixers & an
eggplant colored Le Creuset
a tiny apartment with bad pipes
& creaking floors. I have
no stakes. I barely got health,
I barely got muscle. I want
a garden near an ocean
that won’t eventually swallow
me. I want my only job to be this:
clawing at a white page until Black
appears. & suddenly, in that moment
I got something—

what do I wear to deliver my book
into the world
as it is today
monologued by a woman
a former interrogator and torturer
what would she wear
to the inauguration ceremony
of a museum
of her own imagination on full display
a celebration of the practice
not carried out by one regime, but an enterprise
global and interdisciplinary
stretched out throughout histories
the banality of evil on full display
men in full armor genociding
men in suits smiling to the cameras
and telling journalists they are looking into it
what a torturer wears to a press conference
proud of her alliances
her feminist motto
making history
the madam is “redefining the power suit,” the headline says
her Chucks saw a 4500% increase in online interests
how much does the madam’s suit from Chloé cost?
she says she fully supports
the men behind the ashes and the debris and the skeletons
her closet website lists it all—the suits, the jewelry, the shoes, the outerwear, the accessories, the
casual wear, the formal wear, the home wear
there is a section for the recently identified and for the recently worn
the madam says Iran is the number one enemy
the child, her teeth broken, her hair disheveled, carries her sister on her back
says of course she’s tired
says her sister’s leg is hurt
she will carry her sister
the road stretches behind them and in front of them
the man takes the children to his car, gives them a ride
the decorations of death have risen in many front yards
plastic skeletons and gravestones
the hollowed-out eyes
the desire for horror
store bought and cheap

what are the tax percentages on the receipts?
other children hug the dogs
hold on to
the necessary embrace
in a shelter that cannot shelter
the dogs stare at the camera
in shock, their eyes cannot even blink
staring into
he cares for the cats
asks us to be kind to animals
the mother who mothered him into mothering the animals was killed
his daughter was born
he feeds the cats, washes the eyes, heals the wounds
a child was once upon a time running on another stretch of road, all naked
the girl in the picture
the terror of war
the madam wants to look “finished but not overtly fabulous.”
what to wear to the event
launching the book that exposes the complicity
of the scholars and the feminists and the experts and the psychologists and the researchers
of another madam
shattering the glass ceiling optimizing the cleansing
writing the words for land acknowledgements
how do the words rise off the page
to be voiced through a mouth
that welcomes the killing
of the gray horse stuck in the rubble
of the houses
of the humans targeted
a blue sky behind her
in her undefeated resistance of hope and life
our wizard reminds us that no occupation lasts forever

                The world is a beautiful place 
                                                           to be born into 
if you don’t mind happiness 
                                             not always being 
                                                                        so very much fun 
       if you don’t mind a touch of hell
                                                       now and then
                just when everything is fine
                                                             because even in heaven
                                they don’t sing 
                                                        all the time

             The world is a beautiful place
                                                           to be born into
       if you don’t mind some people dying
                                                                  all the time
                        or maybe only starving
                                                           some of the time
                 which isn’t half so bad
                                                      if it isn’t you

      Oh the world is a beautiful place
                                                          to be born into
               if you don’t much mind
                                                   a few dead minds
                    in the higher places
                                                    or a bomb or two
                            now and then
                                                  in your upturned faces
         or such other improprieties
                                                    as our Name Brand society
                                  is prey to
                                              with its men of distinction
             and its men of extinction
                                                   and its priests
                         and other patrolmen
                                                         and its various segregations
         and congressional investigations
                                                             and other constipations
                        that our fool flesh
                                                     is heir to

Yes the world is the best place of all
                                                           for a lot of such things as
         making the fun scene
                                                and making the love scene
and making the sad scene
                                         and singing low songs of having 
                                                                                      inspirations
and walking around 
                                looking at everything
                                                                  and smelling flowers
and goosing statues
                              and even thinking 
                                                         and kissing people and
     making babies and wearing pants
                                                         and waving hats and
                                     dancing
                                                and going swimming in rivers
                              on picnics
                                       in the middle of the summer
and just generally
                            ‘living it up’

Yes
   but then right in the middle of it
                                                    comes the smiling
                                                                                 mortician

                                           

I am required to resist the distractions and the easy wine 
that facilitates the annihilation of the other 
              and their daily bread

To resist dabbling in the spoils, especially 
because the world has been hard. 
To do away with the thought 
              that somehow I am owed

To carry the weight in everything we do, 
that there is nothing left to normalize 
and we have given up any right to peace 
and contentment every time we pay the tax 
that allows for our lives, 
our own lives to consider 
              only our own lives