Maybe I need to fold myself
into an unidentifiable shape
And trick you into thinking
That you know who I am.
Maybe I need to shrink
Or become invisible.
Maybe I need to make you
Fall in love with me or
Cook you a big dinner.
Maybe I need to wear
a different costume,
Something that fits
A bit better
Into your expectations.
Maybe I need to tell you a story
About how you and I are
Long lost siblings.
Maybe I need to be
a shapeshifter like raven,
and drag to you
among dry corn cobs
and string, messages
from our ancestors.
Maybe I need to be quiet
And unnoticed.
Maybe I need to have a few
Ribs removed
or eyeshadow
Permanently tattooed.
Maybe I need to wear
Higher heels or tell you
How great I think your
Last piece was
Over and over again.
Maybe I need to take care of you,
Medicate your sickness,
Or feed your belly.
Maybe I need to give birth
To a baby
Or learn how to perfect
My prayers
For your liberation.
Maybe my voice needs to be louder
My tits need to be bigger
My ass needs to be smaller
My hair smoother
My make-up more perfect
My ability to nod and smile at your
Astounding discoveries
More apparently clear.
Maybe I need to interrupt more,
Avoid standing to the side while you talk.
Maybe I need to flutter my eyelashes,
Or tilt my head to the side.
Maybe I need to work harder.
Maybe I need a college degree
Or better yet—
A fucking high school diploma.
Maybe I need to dodge bullets
Or stand up taller
Be more poised and prepared.
Maybe I need to toughen up,
Get a thicker skin,
Learn how to play with the big boys,
Maybe I need to be more predictable.
Maybe the things I say
That make you feel uncomfortable
Need to be cushioned with sugar
Or homemade mashed potatoes.
Maybe my questions
about rising body counts,
Genital mutilation, legal prostitution, foot binding,
White privilege, male privilege, young
People drugged, murdered, incarcerated,
The deeply interwoven lines of oppression,
Queer radicalism, dying buffalo, organizing
Communities, our shared identity,
torture, Palestine, femicide,
the disappeared women of Juarez,
the way I feel when I’m at a corner
waiting to cross the street
and I have to look down
in order to avoid
the inevitable lapping tongue
hanging out a car window
and what exactly you have to do with that,
the brilliant possibilities
of infinite gender expressions,
why more women
don’t paint murals,
the reality that none of us
escaped the messages
drilled into our childhood minds
as toxic and beautiful as they were,
rape as a weapon,
child soldiering,
human trafficking,
police murder,
the wealth of prisons,
and the poverty of schools,
the truth that
not being
a straight, white, man
still means
that a majority
of human beings
on the planet
must arm themselves,
the rising wall between
Mexico and the US,
Modern segregation,
21st century slave trade,
ICE as the new Gestapo,
How Jews need to say no
To Israeli apartheid,
White people need to wake up
from a privileged coma
and do a whole lot more
about racism in this country
than just vote for Obama,
men need to be allies to women
not silent objectors,
and hetero folks need to stop leaning
on their love of queer eye for the straight guy
and phrases like “I don’t mind gay people”
as if that’s their ticket into solidarity
and in some way prevents the daily murder
of queer and trans people everywhere,
the fact that there are more women
in my life
that have been raped, molested, or abused
than have not,
and why that’s not
just a coincidence,
how I weep and thrash against myself,
how my veins pulse with outrage,
so much so that I
don’t quite buy
the idea that change
will come without violence
and I just wanna say
fuck all the bullshit
and get down,
how my vision was shaped
by my mother’s pain
and courage,
my father’s absence,
charity food,
extensions on the light bills,
a professor’s obsession,
payless shoes,
cool-aid,
punk rock,
Bell Hooks,
Earthquakes,
White anti-racist people,
Camel Lights,
40’s of Mickey’s,
the homestead act,
white privilege,
riding the bus,
Emma Goldman,
Wounded knee,
the harlem renaissance,
the catcher
in the rye,
attempts at suicide,
fist fights,
pedagogy of the oppressed,
hospital bills,
violent men,
the word kike,
Malcom X,
indigenaity,
the Jena 6,
quitting school,
allen ginsberg,
pancakes for dinner,
a gold car
with a fucked up ass
white door,
and the completely consuming
sense of responsibility I feel
to tell you all about
The necessary collapse
Of western
Civilization
As
We
Know it
All needs to pour from
A more beautiful
Acceptable
pair of lips.
But then again
Maybe I don’t need to change a thing.
Maybe its enough that my humble,
imperfect bravery
Extends this love to you,
Stands on stage or street corner,
Rails against expectations,
Shatters your assumptions,
And In one breath forgives
and resurrects it all.
Maybe I am enough
Because I believe
you are enough
and in the end
the only fair
assumption
is
that
I am you
artist, poet kristy lovich
Filed under: could-very-well-be-called-music
