most afraid of
I wait for the day when I will be lifted by the tiny string that ties me to the sky
A room of human liquids, warm liquids minted and cold liquids iced passed from hand to hand and into the old men that occupy that space blowing flavored smoke from their eyes, mango and citrus and cinnamon pepper they leave color, and looking at her eyes a light blue cut with gold it is as watching the sun’s setting, “never you are looking at my eyes but watching them why?” There are walls that are missing bricks or cements or are filled with holes and those holes take on the qualities of unbelievable adventure. A solid structure that stands 15 feet high that stretches as far to either side as I can see yet there is a space big enough for my eyes, my eyebrows, my nose, and my upperlip: a window to see into to be into to go into and a fear to look, how we are made to follow the rules, I walk through a checkpoint and my bag goes unchecked and my instinct is, “hey, you forgot to check my bag! Hey, you should probably also put your fingers in my butt! And also please, let me make it worth your while it’ll only take a second I don’t mind” I don’t care, and shops take on that same quality of windowness, tiny doors wide open one that is filled and being constantly further filled with sawdust, young men sit in it up to their necks and it washes into the street through the door, the sound is a buzzing and everyone smokes cigarettes which often lights the sawdust in the air creating lines and patterns of fire like fireworks
one that is filled with strings and cloths and needles, young men with perfect motions their arms are also as great strings their body a spool and slowly the string is drawn through them as they hover over shoes or shirts or pants that become complete by the string that is drawn as from their heart. One that is filled with heat and flour, giant machines of fire and a perfect machine of humans making and making bread
When you build a wall, you begin the necessity for walls.
Can you tell what country a person is from by the way she sneezes?
Overwillignness to trust to be led this thing again called hope that is a stick to the center of us through the quicksands of us to some part of us that is unbuilt that is unchanged from the day we are born that says that anything is everything and nothing is everywhere, that things can go right in spite of all evidence to the contrary walking through huge crowds and abstracting our vision to see peoples on the whole the ways we are all so identical, piled into rooms with similar objects and similar wants and needs, walking the same and thinking the same and we deviate occasionally, walkingsomewhere new or tryingsomething different but raratively. It’s easy to generalize it’s so easy to generalize so easy to say that I feel hate in white neigborhoods and love in brown ones in black ones in tan ones, denial of the frustrations of racism, the struggle of the black man today still villainized and animalized and feared, the black sheep problem the words we don’t want to use how we are abstracted viral choosing to live our lives according to our personal hungers and fears and how can we be expected to do different, how can we expect to stand outside our erection pointed at god pulling the hair from our bodies in patches, “this will be change, this will be new,” and in my father’s wettest dreams I am a doctor and in my mother’s wettest dreams I am asleep in my bed at home and in the dreams and wishes of people which are the clouds, you know–have you noticed how sad cloudy days are it’s because of all the dreams and hopes that go dreamt and hopet clogging the sky and raining back to us, “no more of this, keep your dreams to yourself!” says the sky. “But I cannot hold onto them they desire to be as clouds!” we say “If you do not keep them closer, we will take them and never give them back we will ball up your clouddreams and blow them out into space” so we built giant paper cone that we erect into the sky, into the clouds and twirl them to collect our dreams back up sticky and bring them back down, “get your dreams here get your dreams here…” Artifacts of the past sounds and machines and rememberings that still shape the way that things are presented to us, things divorced completely from function the way that cell phone rings sound and the way that buttons are shaped, the way that things work, do you remember those red magnets, the ones shaped like U’s? They sort of just stopped existing, yet I have a memory of them as a thing that once was. Or what about “four-eyes”? Do people still say that, so innocent now they say faggot and I am aging and each one of us, god this is amazing, each one of us is a personal perfect historian of a single perspective of what once was, “The History of Raghav by Raghav let me tell you about these red magnets. You see, they were an object that I only saw in real life as a result of a recreation of an original kind of u-shaped-red-magnet-thing that once had a specific form and reason but was recreated because people like myself saw them in cartoons and were somehow interested in them for their oldness, for their attachment to the past. But only in american culture and only amongst people who had the resources to watch tom and jerry and–”
Windows windows windows Israel will not attack will not inspire the Palestinians to conflate danger and the occupation. At the moment it is only shameful and inconvenient, the memories of the gaza strip being air bombed, thousands killed but dying off like the memories of red u shaped magnets. I was called out on saying that “everyone gave me dirty looks” in Jerusalem and it’s true that that is untrue that I exaggerated, but it is words to stand uncertainly for other things to be as symbols and rhetorical abstracts for something else. It is untrue that: everyone in Jerusalem gave me a dirty look, but it is true that the way I felt walking through that city was one somehow rhetorically akin to how one might feel if everyone was looking at you badly. Hah, well, isn’t that convenient then! How every word somehow means every other word how nothing has meaning yet, you little shit, you jungle book piece of shit hiding behind “everything is complicated” and “nothing means anything,” how are we talking now then? How do we speak and make sense of each other if nothing means anything and words words words, what do words do What do words do What do words do?
they waste time, they are silly and don’t do anything they come out of you like lies you sweat it I can smell it on you just like I can smell it in your piss after you’re in the bathroom, it fills the whole fucking room a mist. A filthy mist what have you been eating that your piss smells like that, like warm chutney and salt, like hot sand and vinegar? But… words… Here I bide my confidence, I look really deep into myself and say, let me tell you what words do. words do everything there is to be done, with words I pull the clouds down from god and wrap us in them to feel how warm they are in the center how cold on the outside with words I fill streets with rain and eyes with tears with words I speak to that Hope, that thing, that evolutionary gall bladder in our hearts that makes us fall in love with angels and lets us make love to them in our dreams, waking up sticky from their stardust picking it out of our eyelashes. With words there is nothing that can go undone and the shit of the world, the leftover fuck of the world, the filth of it can and does go unseen for the way it feels to be spoken at exactly. To in a place of voices meant for everyone, to have a word just for you is as something unbelievable and you go fuck yourself with your conversations about politics and “real change,” and “conversations that matter” because people like you will go through your whole lives self-satisfied in accomplishing nothing but convinced you are changing the world, the scaffolding that makes it possible for shit to erect into towers not just filling the streets, a phallus of feces that undoes the rotation of the earth, “conversations that matter” keep amas terrified of being homosexual in this city, convinced that one day he will be woken up in the middle of the night by all the people who are his friends and family, first to say “I hate you” then to say: “Goodbye,” “conversations that matter” matter in a dialectical system that is corrupt and imbalanced in its distribution of values, any conversation that “matters” must be wrong and I will until I die speak in nonsense mighty erection toward god trying to undo not do
It’s always words with you, always words. Go fuck yourself.