open and exposed
Inaccessed to the science of magic, children are born here undecided for. Cripples and men with heads that hang to one side, people who are not symmetrical with one eye larger than the other, misshapen growths and hanging tongues. The cities of the East are populated with the broken, you heard it here first. When children are wet slid and dropped into air without voice to cry or brain to love. They populate this city, limping memorized roads scaffolded with bits of wood and plastic and metal, tiny buildings that threaten to topple that families strengthen with rivets and bolts trying to substitute a missing of humanity with an adding of bits. Human constructions, suits of misgivings.
In the temporary absence of physical violence in this city, they shoot fireworks to celebrate, explosions that fill the entire city with sound from above, a physical recreation reappropriation of fear. Taking the symbols and feelings of remembered fears and turning them into loves, every meal begins with the family yelling until they either vomit or cough blood, marriages are actually executions where men and women are hanged smiling, hand in hand, the picking of olives is only done by children who have not eaten, forced to monkey from branch to branch starving. Never again will they be afraid of death or pain or hunger, in making death and sorrow meaningful, important parts of their daily ritual, they can never be hurt again.
And the retarted gawk. And the alley cats gawk and the city fills with wind at night, special mechanisms on doors and objects to keep them from being flown away, everyone indoors and listening to the winds passing, searching for anything to take away with it. Forgotten children and bits of scraps blown noone knows where. During the season of picking olives (now), the settlers come down from their homes on the mountains to throw rocks and shoot bullets and yell hate. It’s so confusing and so full of sense at the same time, we all need reasons to hate to help to justify our love, but I can’t help but think it a little childish, you know? It’s hard to believe that adults could be so covetous and entitled of anything, you know? And again, I want to hate back, it’s so easy, “just leave us alone.” “Why does america hate the arab world?” “I just like happy, that’s it.” But there is hate on both sides, and the winds that everynight come through this place of dust to carry away the retarted forgotten outdoors come from someplace and go to someplace.
I watched two children tape sticks and wires together to make a long pole, stories high, at the end of which was a ribbon, “it is a message to god, reminding him that we are.” I made that up. But I bet it’s happened someplace. Pulling smoke into me, transsexual desires to elope, we are each only one person, and the real question: has anyone “really” changed anything? Complicated, to say that there is a thing that is “really” and that everything else is symptomatic, aesthetic, vestigial. That before or after cars, there is a “real” that is unchanged. That before or after Martin Luther King Jr., there is a “real” that is unchanged. That real seems to me: hunger, thirst, and the desire to fuck. Unchanged since the beginning of man, but maybe somehow disjointed in starvation and abnormal sexualities, transssexual desires to be beaten to death.
How can one people hate another people? In being safe but conscious of unsafety, am I responsible?