him body meant, her body meant

when i left home, i left behind the weight of failure.

in my desk chair, the padding unforgiving of years of pressure, neck and spine aching, i stare into the screen,
try to forget my body, to fold it without wrinkles and tuck it away,
become eyes and brain.

i see bodies extended through technologies of touch,
the traffic in bodies,
the traffic of bodies, social choreography.

ah, frida, will you be better off when we've perfected the mechanics of the body?
the factory fuck. the bloodless baby.
get your ass on the assembly line.

use repetition to translate the violence of social experience into a sound you can represent on the page.

lot was not the salt of the earth.
he was drunk.
he was raped.
we'll take his word for it.

who could walk away from home without looking back?




[With luck, I will get a poem for april 29 up around midday, and will take this one and the one for the 27th down then!  Cheers to everyone still writing and/or reading!]