Woven From My Mother’s Womb

Post poetry and my disconnect

On Zyg(y) telling me I’m liquid

(my loveletter tothe postmodern maledominated world).

I looked up and noticed

My walls

Had no shape

People were strange.

I looked you up

Sweet, lover

In wikipedia and saw

Someone’s written a book about

You Called: Prophet

Of

Post

Modernity.

And I read your

Easily flowing logic

(Sometimes prose)

On liquids and their states.

Now I feel like a poured out can

Of baby oil

Dribbling down human hands

Just slipping through

Like your words,

(Unable to make our sweet romance last)

I try to

Write

Something

That can be stable

Or grounded in something

Matter(s)?

Can something make me shine again?

Then I remember:

You are bound by words,

By logic.

You are bound by structure.

By printing press…

By academ(ic)ia…

Buildings so hard and rock

Stone; I don’t know what hit you.

You -bound by post and your discontent.

You -solid force of light in the shadows of (Stupidity).

You -hard rock

Solid flavor of despair and,

You- erection of logic monument in my minds eye.

I could have loved you once, but now I leave it to the men

And their building(s).

Instead I’ll be a piece of fabric.

Sensuous and delicate

Sturdy and durable

Shaping around your body

Of ideas made and sold in something that resembles

The solid state of money (books sold in the store for profit)

Turning ( tricks) My words

This texture

Flowing and breathing (it’s true).

Finding lines of stitching,

Grasping at air for seams to hem things,

And buttons to close my light in.

Yes, my new fabricated body

Will contain my fluid bloods from spilling any longer

Blood for you is mine

My endometrium, this time, I’ll keep.

Materials for the harvest:

I need 10 yards of tulle

And 10 yards of velvet

And oh, god, yes I will need loads of scrim, as much

As I can get my hands on

(what am I making? Is it a set design?

Or a theatrical costume?

Just wait and see…..)

I will need

6 yards of wadmal

and as much aerophane as I can get donated

(that stuff is so expensive)

I will need a little old woman to weave me some

15 yards of wool

3 yards of cotton and perhaps some silk

or better yet I will need 4 yards,

yes let’s make it four, yards of atlas

I will pray to get 5 yards of bombazine

with some luck I can also

attain some cashmere

I will need an infinite amount of

string and 11 yards of cire

to make my lavishly long ending to this poem

about love and desire

and about Postmodernity not containing

either of those things

and about

the constructing a new universe

for all

us “others” to retire; to laugh and play; to sing and fuck

to jostle and run around all over the terrain(s)

and using this new universe

so delicate (woven only seconds ago)

to swallow

words whole.