The Details

This piece was modeled after Stacy Walsh’s The Kitchen
appearing in Monkey Puzzle, Fall 2008.

I. The Scene

The apartment was ours as soon as we saw it. So far, we only looked at this one, but I knew we had to get out of New Brunswick. It was suffocating me. Killing us. A new apartment would hold fresh energy. Get us away from him too. And this place had beautiful hardwood floors. I wouldn’t have to vacuum.

II. The Reality

It’s cold outside so I blow my cigarette smoke at her sweaters instead of opening a window. I don’t care how many times she complains; if she can cheat, I can smoke in the house. Someone left a bottle of Southern Comfort at the party we had for her 30th and I swig from it. I drink myself into the telephone, calling every friend who might still answer this late. Everyone is tired of my tears by now. Everyone but me, apparently.

III. The Unravelling

I doubt this conversation would be going better if I was sober. I am full of imagined memories of how her love looked when we met. Somehow I am incredulous to learn she has no plans for New Year’s Eve. She wants us to stay home and watch television. Because of my immediate and violent need for her attention, I strip myself of physical protection and throw my nakedness into the radiator. It sizzles me. She stands, reaches. I shriek and grab at her cock on the nightstand. I threaten to cut it up with a steak knife. She smirks when I fall exhausted into a pile of desperation by the laundry. She tells me she can still fuck other women with or without that cock.

IV. The Aftermath

She is driving too fast for an entrance ramp. She always drives too fast. The only thing I don’t despise about our car rides is her captivity. We shout at each other because I found an earring that isn’t mine in the backseat. I know whose it is and I put it in my pocket. She shouts “But I’m not seeing her!” at me. When she smashes into the guardrail, the airbags explode in our faces and splatter white dust in our eyes. Neither of us are surprised. We crash cars all the time.

V. The Final Gesture

Finally I rent a truck so as to escape properly. I decide that now is the right time to call a new girl. Tell her I really like her. Flirt. See if maybe she’ll fall in love with me for the sake of moving into a new relationship. A simple one that I can trust. The new girl hesitates for only a second before telling me that just like Jay-Z, she has 99 problems. I sing along, fake laugh with her until it’s time to sob, and then hang up.

What It Isn't

not a computer but a typewriter. not a partner but a mistress. not a bad-girl but a lone some, willing to consider whatever bubbles of breath exist under skin without loving too hard. soft enough to run away when time gets going. when going gets rough. when rough gets plucked. when plucked like a chicken, these are not friends. he is not her friend. somehow lost a job or a wife in the movement of the second hand. cold economic crash and lungs collapse into tiny pockets of companionship. good timing not to be able to see two inches from the red rocks which are actually bricks.


and this


is not


her husband.

ms. mel kozakiewicz responds to California’s Prop 8

A week or so has passed since the victory dance, and I am as ready as I will be to respond to California’s decision to ban same sex marriages.

First: An explanation of why I waited:

Like it or don’t, I am an American. I did not choose to be an American but I haven’t renounced my citizenship and I do not plan to in the next four years. As an American or “american” I took great interest in the outcome of the election. To me, as well as (I assume) many other A/americans, this election was about more than one Mister Barack Obama versus one Mister John McCain. (Sarah Who?)

A/american history is so full of racism that we still celebrate Independence Day on July 4. You know the story. On July 4, 1776, “we” finally found “our” independence from Britain. Except that slavery wasn’t abolished until 1865. And then legal segregation came in strong, haunting “us” until the 1970’s, complete with lynching and terrorism by police officers. The history is gory at best.

I am a person who believes that when major traumatic events happen to millions of people for hundreds of years, it takes a significant period of time to move past it regardless of which racial side our ancestors lived on. Simply put: I am one of the people who knows that racism. still. exists. I believe racism exists in our psyches as individuals as well as in our collective consciousness as a country. I believe that (unarmed) Sean Bell was shot at (and killed) by undercover NYPD officers because of the emotions or gut reactions buried deep inside the shooters, brought on by his race. I believe that if my white brother was walking out of that club with a group of his white friends (who were the same age as Sean Bell at that time) they would not have gotten shot at. I believe the officers would have trusted their gut reactions to not shoot.

Stay here with me. I’m getting to gay marriage.

I believe that the constitution was written by slave-owning white men who were primarily interested in creating a document to secure the freedom and liberty of themselves, and did not account for the opinions or liberties of their wives or their slaves. (Note that both “wife” and “slave” are words which define folks in relationship to a dominant.) I believe that because of the history which goes on and on, A/americans have a severe problem with race and racism. Still. Because Sean Bell was killed in 2006. Because James Byrd was dragged to his death behind a truck in 1998. And Because LAST WEEK, Randy Gray, a Republican Precinct delegate from Michigan was photographed protesting the Obama victory in Ku Klux Klan robe with his face showing. Proud.

As such:

When A/americans who have been disenfranchised for as long as their cell-memories can maintain are able to motivate themselves to believe that change is possible, and then actually make their belief become a reality, I believe that we have something to celebrate. Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it wonderful. Isn’t it wonderful.

And no. I do not believe that racism is over because A/americans voted a Black president into office. But I do believe that Barack Obama’s new job provides a visual representation to children (who don’t know about racism yet) that they can dream big. I believe that Barack Obama’s new job legitimizes the possibility that when people work together, change can happen. I believe that Barack Obama’s new job demonstrates that Republicans don’t always cheat, and that A/americans aren’t satisfied with the bloody administration who is STEALING from us RIGHT UNDER OUR NOSES. With our permission.

So I haven’t responded to the haters in California because I wanted to celebrate. We fight and we kick and we scream and when we finally have a tiny bit of reprieve, I want to participate in the celebration.

But now: On to the haters.

I get it. I’m gay too. (Mostly.) I actually prefer the term “queer” because it allows a more fluid expression. The point is that I get the problem. The problem is that the state, A/america, gives benefits to married couples which include really important things like health care (offered by corporations, legitimized by the state), tax benefits, and adoption rights. There are over a thousand of these benefits. These privileges are not afforded to same-sex couples because they are not married. So queers are saying, hey! We’re A/americans too! Let us get married! That way when my partner of 20 years dies in a twin tower, I can get some of that hush money from the government too. (Look up Luke Dudek.)

It’s true. It’s not fair. I get it. And if my tone is flip, this is why:

I believe that queers are fighting the wrong battle, which, in this case, really sucks because it seems like we just lost. Never fear, my friends, we didn’t totally lose, we only sort of lost. Let me explain.

I’m not convinced that as member of this A/american queer community, marriage is my battle. I feel like fighting for marriage is the gay equivilent of “Drill Baby Drill.” It’s antiquated. It’s a short-term solution and it’s only useful to some of us. I wonder why our relationship status affects our taxes or our health care.

(I’m going to say that again.)

I wonder why our relationship status affects our taxes or our health care.

I wonder who sets the goals for the community at large, (I don’t wonder. I know.) and why their priorities are so different than mine. I wonder why we’re spending SO MUCH MONEY on this particular issue. I wonder why the queer community doesn’t seem to give a shit about my transmen friends who can’t seem to get jobs, despite their master’s degrees. I wonder when the name Sakia Gunn is going to matter as much as the name Matthew Shepherd. I wonder when crystal meth is going to be less of a problem, and why no one has put any money into figuring out why so many of us are addicted to drugs that will kill us. (Can I get a shrink over here?)

Furthermore: One of the things that queer communities have been really good at is imagining new kinds of family structures and new relationship bonds that aren’t necessarily parallel to the tradition we’re calling marriage. While we’re fighting for marriage, we’re forgetting our roots and the multiplicity of formats our relationships take, privileging only the ones that look like theirs. Which is ok, but we can do better. We can, at the very least, pretend to care about the entire community, and not just the parts of it that seem comfortable and familiar to the heteros. Just because they don’t care about our wounded members doesn’t mean we don’t have to. We’re family, right?

So thanks to the haters in California for raining on our parade, and for reminding us that to them, even the monogamous cracker queers aren’t okay in the eyes of their Lord, and that our relationships aren’t as important or meaningful or devastating as theirs are. And to the queers who have found themselves swept up in the idea that if we have marriage, we’ll be legit, double back. Make sure.

As always,
peace or justice,
ms. mel

Loveworthy or Lonely Recycled Words

1.

Her feelings around my chest.

She lies beside me, too deep to reach.

I touch her face.
Nice to be home.

She smiles. No where to go.
That wild hair in this horrible marriage.

She asks me to cry. I’m already stuck
hanging around all eternity with her.

2.

Beside me
she lies sharp
scarred joys.

3.

Trust this impermanence
where there is no eternity.

4.

To her,
the wild moment

sober shoulders

my hair already
embracing her cheeks

love stuck to arms I haven’t had
quiet love
four days
that want
to watch and reach
marriage
raised
for calm.

poem for Obama and for us

“Come with me,” he says, “to the edge of this bridge. We will all hold hands and jump off.”

“Come with me,” to the queers with the lip rings and the slippery breasts.

“Come with me,” to the brown man in the wheel chair who fired guns in Vietnam.

“Come with me,” he says, as if an angel or a doctor sent him, “We will stand out in the rain together, learn a lesson about humility.” We wear jeans and black t-shirts even though some of us have much warmer clothing but we want to understand each other so we dress alike.

“Come with me,” to the high school dropouts who recently lost their jobs when they were caught stealing milk from the local Wal-Marts.

“Let us drink from the river and eat ears of corn, extra butter, extra salt,” as if we’ve never eaten anything else together, because we haven’t.

We step steady onto this shaky rainbow as an unlikely group and hope we wind up in a pot of sanity but no one can be sure because we’ve never followed anyone before, much less all as one. We stare at each other, watch the bizarre ways we dance or don’t, wonder how the other learned to move like that or stand so tidy still in spite of the fire energy pervading the crowd.

“Come with me,” he said when all I wanted was to stay stuck in my easy-chair and watch television, but he started to cry, so I cried too. I missed my grandmother but “Lucky you,” he said to me, I could bring her along if I like, so I do.

“She will be difficult to support,” I say, “She is white and not well.”

He smiles and summons four young imperfect strangers to accompany us. Eighty-four years old and Gramma walks or we take turns lifting her. She closes her eyes and makes new memories about this man, these men, this surprising and somehow surreal experience.

“Come with me,” he says, and we scoop people along the way who don’t know or can’t imagine they can move this fast or this far without the comfort of leather shoes and familiar faces.

“Come with me,” he says, and we do.