The photographer says she can’t wait until my next “opening.”
I start to correct her and say With poetry, it’s called a reading,
or a performance or a slam. Then I realize maybe that’s the problem.
So I step on my loud and say,
“Yes. Please come to my next opening!”
It will not be all good light and gallery smiles
but I will fresh slice the walls for you,
hang my absurd and wait for the wine to spill.
It’s been a long time since I’ve shown anything.
Notice the ten foot installation of Talks Too Much.
I eat margarine when I’m nervous. I get nervous
when you like me. I describe things poetically
to keep from saying what I really think.
This one here is my father.
Notice his head asleep on the stove.
His hands bloated like a drunken liver.
I drink when I can’t decide who to be.
I starve when decide I’m too much.
I am angry,
Which means you best prepare yourself
for the nasty awkward that will rain down upon you,
when I decide some things deserve my fucking angry.
I fall in love like some women fall in mortgage.
I have damn near become my mother.
Minus ﬁve husbands and a bad case of arthritis.
I am still cracking knuckles and divorcing.
I am terriﬁed that my children will ask why I didn’t
try harder. I am never alone. Never ever alone.
I go to crowded places where we sit, with a small plate
of cheese and fruit, cock our head to one side and say,
“I can’t believe someone pinned my stomach to a canvas.”
That is why we do this.
This is an invitation to stop swallowing the art in your mouth.
This is an invitation to stop ripping yourself apart.
This is an invitation to be a live nude. Let them draw you dirty, ﬂawed and glistening.
This is an invitation to