And when they say, “stop crying,” I bellow somewhere between my appendix and liver, “I’m trying.” Although I know what they mean is not what I mean, I mean what I mean, except that – we are trying.
He seemed objective, and that’s what I wanted to catch word of. Sweat, body odor you did not mind, the warranted smell of Others’ breath – you could see their canker sores. Claustrophobic, but with so much available oxygen. I saw him, he switched through the two sides, seemingly objective, so I asked him what they were saying. He told me not to be so sure whose side he was on. That was it – I had assumed. Incorrectly.
And a man in Supras, shorts in brisk weather, zipped up with camouflage clothing that was not camouflage, but hid him nonetheless, who bore white skin shouted that our safe spaces were dead.
I saw a black woman, and I apologized somewhere near by liver and appendix, but also through my eyes, and realized that I am this man, when I saw my dermal pigment.
I guess it seemed fake. Because of the way she cried.
Sweat, body odor, when they ask us what we want to change, I think, “You!” and remember “Mother” by Pink Floyd, and Clinton’s cardboard cutout reaches apex on the monument. Where is she? I see her, and I have her pinned on my lapel now. She’s a safety clip on my lapel. Safety. Can you clip safety to yourself? If so, it can be unclasped. My lapel is as heavy as my heart. Safety clips bind things otherwise loose from each other.
Some angry Trumpette (they told us our non-binary life didn’t matter – plastered it to the walls and took people of color with them with threats of tarring and feathering; feathers come out of pillows when you are sucking your thumb, and you play with them, and it’s fun to pull them out one by one by one by one by one by one by one, and they are amusing, not abrasive), and I say Trumpette because she made it clear she was a woman: “I’m a woman, and you’re mad that your candidate didn’t win,” and I wince, somewhere closer to my larynx, right by my thyroid, “She was your candidate, too; you just voted for the other one.” Some Trumpet wished us farewell deaths – as if we were on death row for being alive. Somebody else’s orgasm – that’s all I am, and I am on death row for that. We all feel that now. Sweat, dehydration, and solidarity – it feels good, but nobody catches the high the same way after the first time.
Tumpets and Trumpettes. They sound the same. Like homonyms. Because they are alike.
I wonder what we are to them.
Clints and Clits?
It would be so, if history reflects onto the unseen.
He looked objective. I remember “The Wall” (both the rhetorical concept and the soundtrack), I remember “Dispatches,” and I cannot believe how many people remember the Alamo but do not know where Texas “won.”
Won. Won. Win. Win. Winning. Winning. Lose. Loser. The Biggest Loser. Lost. Lost. Loss –