readspeakresist

about sleep

2009-04-14T16:35:00.000-07:00

something awful about slumber. something wonderful.

how I wake with sludge inbetween my eyelashes. stuck there. as if I never showered. as if my eyes are pie crusts, waiting to be eaten. or worse. tossed in the trash cuz no one wants that part. prefers the filling. as long as it’s not apple. I hate apple pie eyes.

how I dream terrible thoughts about his wife. about how he touches me with the authority of those muddy fingertips. and then he does. wakes me with it. turns me over and lifts me up. enters my dreams and leaves.

vulnerable in sleep. passive. receptive.

the compulsion

2009-03-22T21:57:00.000-07:00

the compulsion to pen poems. as in: illness. obsession.

wait.

for the path.train. three thirty a.m. loathsome like drunkards; count high heels and wonder. what happened. to herman. how he be.came. this way. how old his wife is. if she really curls her bangs like that. and what. kind of conclusions we jump at. when women wear wound hair.

or their husbands. who dis.play. mis.tresses.

where we each fail to perform. necessary duties or responsible personhood. how a fable of accountability could have earned a portrait instead. of this jumble. of words.

we smash together. careful enough to be named: poem.

and wonder. about freud. what he might have said. about any of it.

Presentation is Everything

2009-01-30T08:38:00.000-08:00

for Herman

He sits quiet. casual on my bed. I crawl about. nude. photograph the deception. we created while fucking. His shirt. plaid. buttons-down. The book. Baudelaire’s. Paris Spleen. a master. of form. without. extra. periods. Perhaps because men don’t menstruate. One leopard-print shoe. gifted from a woman I drove to a disgusting motel. after her man beat her. which unfolded into another untruth. I watched her suck. his lips. hours after. I saved her. Both high. on. tina. I never saw her. again. The orange tag. a condom wrapper. Claims to be special. “for her.” but leaves us with impression of plastic-coated cherries. on a sundae. special for her. or not. His cock. uncircumcised. Perhaps. the most virtuous part of his body. I’d rather ride. bareback. but he cheats. The wine. a blend. from the west. my favorite red. We looked when we heard. the glass crash. The light. a desk lamp. because the camera is actually a computer. sans flash. Positioned at the bottom. of the pile. his coat. He made an effort to hang it. but it fell. when our fucking tangled the web.

The only omission. is love. What we have. is destruction. the floor. his foot.

It's us, too.

2008-12-30T06:11:00.000-08:00

This letter is specifically (and lovingly) written to an activist friend of mine who is attempting to convince people that the economic-collapse is not affecting people “like us” who don’t have 401Ks or money invested in the stock market, but you can read it too.

My Dear Friends,

By now, we’ve all heard the rumors that America is leading the world in an economic collapse. How we got to this point, the meaning behind the numbers ticking across the bottom of the screen, and the tossing around of taxpayer money to folks in the automotive and banking industries only help to confuse the situation to those of us who aren’t economists. I’m writing today to address a very specific concern among so many of my peers who seem to think that this economic crisis is somehow not affecting folk who fit into the category of working poor families.

It’s true. We never had 401Ks to lose. We didn’t lose any money in the stock market because we didn’t have any to invest in the first place. But we did have jobs. We were able to go the grocery store and buy mozzarella cheese. This is not the case anymore.

For sure, prices at the grocery store have gone up. Easy example: standard mozzarella cheese blocks have gone from somewhere around five dollars to eight dollars. And yes, sometimes prices go up on particular items. It’s about more than cheese.

We can’t pay for rising prices because we don’t have any extra money. Thanks to the loss of revenue, we’re not getting a Christmas bonus this year. We’re not getting overtime pay. If we work for tips, (anyone in the service industry – your manicurist, waitress, pizza delivery guy, etc.) we are making less than half of what we made last year. Not to mention the layoffs.

Just because we don’t necessarily understand the green ticking numbers at the bottom of the screen doesn’t mean they’re arbitrary. They indicate a loss of profits for a company. Companies are not arbitrary either. We are companies. When companies lose money, that means people lose money. When people lose money, they make budget cuts. The budget cuts they make are us. They lose money, they fire us. When they fire us, we don’t do things like get haircuts or go out to eat. When we stop doing things like getting haircuts and going out to eat, the people who work at the salon and the restaurant don’t make tips. When they don’t make tips, they go home with nothing. There is no hourly wage.

When companies lose money, they stop doing things like building additions to their workplaces or repainting their living rooms. When they stop doing those things, construction workers spend the day staring at each other in meeting spots around the country, waiting for hours for someone to need something. When that doesn’t happen, they go home empty handed.

The economy is set up in such a way that if it falls, we all fall. Granted, some of us are better at living without money than others, however, the system we are familiar with assumes that we have places we can go if we are in severe financial hardship, like food banks, or emergency shelters. These places are not equipped to deal with the magnitude of jobless folk that the crisis is producing. Many of us have begun to supplement our joblessness with prostitution, drug sales, and theft.

And yes, sweet friend. These are not new ideas. Millions of Americans, generally people of color, generally women, generally in ghettoized neighborhoods have been privy to this kind of underground market for generations. We need not forget about these folk that capitalism already abandoned due to their inability to produce. People with mental illness. People who never learned how to read. People who were born into circumstances which breed more poverty. Life is harder for these folk now too, if that’s possible. Lines are long at free breakfast kitchens. Food supplies are dwindling at food pantries. Shelters are full. Ugly gets uglier.

My point, dear friend, is simply this: It’s not just them and their 401Ks. It’s us too.

Happy Like That

2008-12-25T07:47:00.000-08:00

for emily

and she is as happy. as s.pool.s of red ribbon. dusky gold trim. clean. tidy. gift wrap like Christmas. like new lipstick. greysmoky eyes. aren’t really hers, but nonetheless fabulous happy.

like. a swan.ky rug. or a private train-car. making stops. only in Milan and Belize. happy. enough to give back, even though she hates this part, but loves the way he smells so she fancies it happy. like dimples shine. on the long walk home. happy. like the television is. always off. so happy she’s not sure. if she’s sober. sing car songs happy. notice license plates. happy like boun.ci.n.g.

happy like waking. realizing. she hasn’t died. in her sleep. or jumped. off that old barn. in Brockport. or encouraged her sister. to buy. a handgun. she doesn’t want or can’t control. happy. like finally. finish the den. sit. in the new. easy. chair.

like tuna-melts. kisses behind the knees. hot tubs and bikinis. that look terrific. like big. California. blends. or Troop Beverly Hills. happy. like finally. meet the man. she loved her whole life. without. knowing. him. like obedient children. raise their hands to ask curious questions. about science. and Barack Obama.

happy like kicking. crispy leaves. on our way. to the bookstore. happy like hot. pancakes. like watching. the game. and they win. happy. like Emily happy. happy like that.

No Mas de Problemas

2008-12-07T12:20:00.000-08:00

No mas de problemas.
Turn the words like a tiny gameshow host.

“Be Better Than You Are.”

And I will do everything to answer or cry
when you make jokes when I ask questions.

And when you want to lose condoms inside me
I will answer and open my legs because
babies are catastrophes I create in my sleep,
& love is as useful as a helmet
when I dive from the side
of a mountainslide
on a motorbike
until I find

another butch
to cling to,

and wonder why
I’m stuck
in this truss
all the time.

Call whenever you want.
Your skillfun working
prickly dick has
solved more problems
of machismo and hopefully,
her name won’t provide
additional concerns ‘cuz
we can’t have any more,
remember?

No mas de problemas, Papi.

The Details

2008-11-22T22:31:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-16T17:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-09T17:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-05T13:24:00.000-08:00

“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.

Alter, Edit, or Move

2008-09-30T10:33:00.000-07:00

He wants us to hug strangers.
I don’t hug anything.
I hear the omnipotent voice.
He tells us to go toward the center.
We hold our arms out,
dance to the field
exhilarated and communal.

We begin to stretch and the music changes.
We take out our umbrellas.
I am unsure how many of us are participating in this experiment.

He wants us to hug inanimate objects.
We get stuck on the word inanimate,
wonder if trees count.

He’s trying to relax us.
He wants our excitement contained.
We make sure that no one has stumbled or vomited.

He tells us it’s a disguise that won’t hurt anyone.
I give a high five to no one,
thumb war with no one.
We all stand up – except that so many of us are already standing.

A sudden change
I look
it seems as
if we’re all

don’t think

at this point

He wants to know where I live.

He praises our

We’re supposed to
begin to breathe

We make our way there with our fingers

pose. Touch your nose he says.

people are going to look at us funny.

He obviously doesn’t realize

where everyone else

suddenly forced forward as poetry

2008-09-27T20:15:00.000-07:00

poetry as an eruption. how it comes up like yesterday’s vodka. no sleep tonight, or not yet. puke it into a toilet. pressed cheek against a sewage seat that hasn’t been cleaned for at least a month. curious how it can be so vile. erupts like a tupperware party ulcer. a long narrow band of sarcasm and unhappy women who couldn’t possibly care about plastic boxes when they could be kissing on each other. erupts like water and mucus shoots out the orifice of a whale. or hairballs on the rug. wait till it dries, it’ll be easier to pick up. eruption as a forced exit of something soft from something hard. really hot or really gross. erupts from a pore in earth. or a nostril. erupts because it does. as it is.

a response

2008-09-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

monday (k)night butch

of course i noticed
how your sentences mirror mine
"you've reached melissa kozakiewicz/
please leave a message"
as if you read it
all ready
said it to me as if
you meant it as if
your terror might be
invisible inside parentheses as if
our names aren't hidden
couched inbetween letters
not obvious but not
secret or at least
not to me

but i know you

Red Giant Phase: A Collaboration

2008-09-19T09:44:00.000-07:00

for elizabeth

his toes reach almost the wind or else they direct the eye toward the woman he loves. she wears green when she feels radiant and wants him to know. his tag is exposed but he doesn’t concern himself with matters like shirts or money or trauma or death when she is the distance of one arm out. their toes mingle, tingle into after noon, flirt with the sand because he is in the most shocking love that one can find on a beach. later he uses a stick to carve her initials in the sand and she sends out light because she has waited for him for 4.57 billion years. this kind of far away love that directs climate even when naysayers think it won’t. this kind of love that supports almost all life below the toes and electrifies the body in a way that seems dangerous to the weak. to the smarmy. she tosses her hair and flares when he insists on capturing the picture but he does it anyway. he sets it as background on her phone to prioritize the moment. to discover that as long as their feet are touching then nothing else matters. and she glimmers because that’s what she does around him.

photo: Bob Nardi
text: mel kozakiewicz

better a butch than a man

2008-09-05T12:09:00.000-07:00

she and me
we drunk stumble to the rental room.
i pass out dizzy one foot anchor the floor.
she mounts me and grinds,
dirty t-shirt uncovered thighs.
butch emulating a masculinity better left behind.
how often women wake with squirm on limp bodies.
better a butch than a man. no
poke poke puuussssshhh.
familiar fluids flip with women.
on top and inside.
disgust disguised
smirking fiesty.
HORNY because she came
WHILE I SLEPT so
she don't need a wake pussy.

Lonely like This

2008-08-11T04:44:00.000-07:00

as lonely as six. hours. of tele.vision. a worm. in an apple.
baby. in an incubator. born early. wilted. lettuce. or rust.
under the drip. as lonely as mountains: miles of mountains.
or snoring. walk. in a restaurant. force yourself. say "party
of one." or "just me." uncalculated. air. one shoe. one
earring. one twin. one parent. one lung. lonely. like writing
poems. in the nude. crying. in coffee. first thing in the
morning. like divorce. surgery. wake up to a mirror in
which your swollen face is the only reflection. or marry a
pilot. speak. only to the babies. you made together. haven't
had an adult. conversation. in months. like alcohol. or
bar.tenders. or choose not to. bathe. lonely. like this. like
this. like this.

Field the Movement

2008-08-03T12:56:00.000-07:00

I run in the street
bangin music and beats
slammin speakers and knees
mary j and jay z
poppin rockets for me

and i run

sneakers over concrete
cars cruise and beep
new york city to keep

space while I run

gained weight or lost love
I decided to run through
advisement from dawn
I smash down my feet
in appropriate streets
sweat and sing -- sweet
failure of song

while I run

men holler but I don't bother
an offer of eyes or flex
up my thighs cuz at once
in too long
comfort fumbles toward
responsible :: impossible
perhaps even :: powerful

and I run

toward leaps into energy
saved for sadderdays strong
like mary, the magic, mary, the music
propels anger into shivers of
awwwwww shit

so I run

Terrorists

2008-07-31T22:10:00.000-07:00

Terror as in:

summer pudding, filmy.
wooden knives,
Staten Island.

bed liners:
moth cycles:
joke wareshouses (teeth and all.)

american pick up trucks and thunking metal chains.
doing it wrong -- traveling
alone or with salesmen.

birthing virtual babies in public places,
pap smear campaigns.

massive bobcats attack
bloody pirates (gaping and dirty).

letters shrinking & suicide
captured on camera.
squacking birds in clouded skies.
and winded good-byes.

or perhaps:

what happens to men
after they soak us?
establish the seed and leave
us now with impossible trees?

then what happens?

Without Coffee Without Song

2008-07-22T19:51:00.000-07:00

Her silent desire:
these seeds, ground up & us
occupied in apologies,

polite urging of harmonies,
pleasing vibrations that travel
into and around our most sensitive organs.

Let us operate and control the road,
chew and swallow the sky,
participate in violent struggle

in rare instances because
divergent hostility
is better than loneliness.

The Woman in the Moon

2008-07-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

The Woman in the Moon

Still Chang'e lives, a spinster mostly, on the moon, dances in silk.

Legend says she swallowed the entire immortality elixir

which she had fully intended to share with Yi

(whose do-gooding got them banished

from the highest court of heaven).

Perhaps she wanted a divorce or

maybe it was a fancy mistake.

Either way, notice how

companionless

she sways.

7/14/08

Divination Cards: Megan and Mel

2007-11-27T11:07:00.000-08:00

The Artists:

The following posts (all of November) are intended as a prototype for a set of Divination Cards created in collaboration with artist Megan Gertler. Megan can be reached at theseahagsdaughter@yahoo.com. I can be reached at msmel1979@yahoo.com.

Our Idea:

divination. as a method. of standing under.

these cards are intended to re-present. perhaps you have a question. allow the cards to offer an alter.native. to suggest. a not her way of seeing. a glimpse. glance. into your reality. in to some thing. out.side the scope. of your vision. or mine. some thing channeled me. to write. these words. un.censored. many of them. written on my fire escape. out side. al.one. in a confined space. anxious. listen to the wind. watch the birds. sit alone. write in my notebook. in no chrono.logical order.

So I wrote them down. and you picked them up. what brought you here? do you believe in coincidences? can one act ever exist on its own timeline? choose a card. any one.

read the text. look at the images. can you imagine why you might have chosen that card? that particular message? perhaps that card chose you? is it possible that messages come from space to reach a person who needs to hear them? are you lonely? maybe today you are on the verge of a major decision. sell your house. marry. have an abortion.

I have no ideas why the card you chose might be of any interest to you. at all. but you do. read the text. look at the images. what’s happening here? do you know? are you prepared to consider the messages?

how you read them is up to you. I suggest candles. quiet spaces. contemplation. pick one at random. just point and click. see what happens. how your life is reflected. how it isn’t. expect nothing. be open to anything.

Love Card

2007-11-26T19:24:00.001-08:00

L O V E

(never what it seems)

love. as in: missing you. exhaust time. write poems. about love. for love. with the hope of falling. in love. with desperation. with in.action. a need. to be. cared for. a performance. of caring. smile. butter his bread.

love. as in: some body help me. I got bills. mommy lives. far. a way. I need. some one wash my panties. love. as in: sex. at night. after work. a person. to attend. functions with. a person. tell me I appear. beautiful. aesthetically. re.assure me. touch. a person. not plugged in. to the wall. can’t put it in. the drawer. a person. with breath. who loves me.

love. as in: my parents. their love. as a model. for my lovers. my imagination of. their love. or decision to. love. their children. their jobs. their house. while I re.side. alone. in new jersey. wear glasses.

love. as in: I’m sorry. I can never speak. to you. a.gain. as in: this will. never work. bet.ween us. me and you. it’s over. sorry. it’s not that. it’s not. love. it’s not that it’s not. it’s just not. love. as in: all over. now. love. as in: eating pizzas. on the bed. in our under wear. grow fat to.get.her. to age. with food. on my face. laugh. your feet. curl. under your thigh. massage your head. a beautiful shape. for a head. with a dip. love. as in: missing you. as in: a fantasy of what. kind. of. relation ship we might sail. if we weren’t two. authentic people. there were never enough. lies. for us. to survive.

Secrets Card

2007-11-26T18:43:00.001-08:00

S E C R E T S

(lonely. under a bus.)

secrets. fester. destroy. chance at an honest life. suddenly dropped. on my face. i must find a space. to carry. these secrets. i send them to sadie. on envelopes. the secrets can.not. sustain life. which maintains its own secrets. creates lies. to cover them up. soon enough. the secret was smothered. alone on the left. is the lie. which becomes the new secret.

tearing at my flesh. secrets that began as lies, covering for other secrets. i’m wondering why. your skin is an aching organism. how many other feet have walked in your shoes. who stole your boots? carried your dreams? no longer a collector of stories. a dreamer of lies. echos.

suddenly cramped in the space under a bus for twelve hours. nine people. no windows. no bathroom. no food. silence. the hum of the wheel hot under my ass. fleshed up against a stranger. always touching. never speaking. silencing each other. this bus is a nightmare leading to a life of daydreams which can never truly exist in this land of make-believe. someone told me about this place. created stories, covered up with lies, masking secrets and now i’m stuck here too.

Learn Card

2007-11-26T17:03:00.000-08:00

L E A R N

(ways in which to grow.)

knowledge. now. from a ledge. sitting on the fire. escape. for a defined period of time. to contemplate. perhaps. to jump. to learn. to watch birds. trees move. a cat comes. I click. at it. silence. take space in. breathe. listen. period of quiet. reflect.ion. ankles tinge. the bowels. learn. from the ear. to hear. as in, to shut up. this once.

loud students. a bus stop. cram. wear uniform colors. hormone display. cuss words. hard.cover text books. the cafeteria. learn. where to sit. with whom.

soothing brilliance. red yarn. sculpted into hair. attached to a piece of glass. as in, art. learn to appreciate the fantasy. the idea. learn to allow. art. without teachers. only silence. ancestry. to guide you. through this tempest. of knowledge.

imagine college. read. books. some.one. suggested. take them. at their word. speak some other. language. become. a doctor. study. sturdy.

for.get a job. one that promises pay. don’t. become an artist. for money. poetry pities payment. become a poet. for spirit. to acknowledge. the god.dess. erupted from some.w.here. with.in. for knowledge.

Kill Card

2007-11-26T17:02:00.000-08:00

K I L L

(deciding who lives)

Kill or be dead. like a warrior. soldier. in Iraq. I wrack. my brain. search for reasons. set fire to people. impale them. People like me. who am I. killing. buying their pain. Because of my needs. for heat. my car. movie theatre experiences. Kill them all. don’t stop. some may live to speak. the horror. Some may come. attempt revenge.

Imagine fois gras. once a.live. force fed fat. swollen liver. tortured with me. in mind. or pigs. chopped. bled in silver rooms with saws. chickens. cows. Bludgeoned.

Lamb of god. his constant killing. in a flood. no. twice. once with noah. once in the sea. drowns them. severe water damage. so learned my military. pleasant name like waterboarding. remniscent of wakeboarding. on the beach. with dad. questions arise. can it be? torture? gag with water. confuse lungs.

Sacrifice my one and only. son. sacrifice eating. meat. on fridays. only kill the fish. dolphin safe. tuna. dead tunas but the dolphins are safe. don’t harm the dolphins.

Share Card

2007-11-26T17:00:00.001-08:00

S H A R E

(together we can)

break it in two. we can share. one half mine. one half yours. one of two. our brother approaches. share with him. learn to share. our bedroom. at night. we play “guess what I’m thinking of.” I say, it’s blue. you guess. correct. share laughter. you fall asleep. snore. steal the silence. horde it.

we can not share. the baby. you can hold it. this baby is mine. don’t tell mom. she won’t share. is that why you left? separated by seven. states. she couldn’t share. sanity. her limited amount.

I have a coupon for a shoe discount. you are barefoot. call it generous. generalized. sharing. or your last mango. share with me. we are all hungry. here. haven’t had a good mango. ever. as in, during my lifetime. share yours.

shares of stock. pieces of labor. owned by those who do not sweat. to split up the profits. to splice between the fat guys. from america. mostly.

natural re.sources. share until they deplete. until they are exhausted. cannot contain energy. share with neighbor. build a community windmill. share the noise. the success.

(.polyamory. don’t. try it.)

Birth Card

2007-11-26T16:57:00.000-08:00

B I R T H

(towards creating a text.)

moving in that direction. towards birth. as a process. between three people. beings. your father. myself. you. we did it together. as a collaborative process. with ecstasy in mind. to feel pleasure. divine. eruption of glad. play of skin. flesh. sweat. naught. completed in private. without audience. for no ones benefit but ours. copulate. to copulate then to birth.

missing somewhere is movement. missing some. where is a moment. of ex.change. fluids. from within. miles inside. lava. enzymes. from this exchange of enzymes becomes you. fetus. zygote. idea. poem. alive in your own. right. before me. but not now. now you are. with me. of me. growing. my death brings yours.

remember your father. his name is whisper. he will periodically offer. inspiration. he is my left leg and my right. opening together when you began. again when you release. a celebration of poetry. a joy to have in class. graduation.

Pleasure Card

2007-11-26T16:55:00.000-08:00

P L E A S U R E

(ways to feel better)

there is music. performance. if you listen. receive. re-see. music as a substitute for prozac. attempt to dance. soothe nerves. swing with it. dueling guitars like friends. chase one. another. around the room. teasing. with passion. emotion. nice music that my father used. to groove. in the living room. eyes closed. fingers snap. mother would sing.

mmm. like orange juice. in the morning. hot coffee fresh. with cream. sugar. phantoms bite. between my thighs. reconstructing. last night. the laughter. the ice cream. scary movie. warm messy bed. feather pillows. empty glasses. your smell.

the phone rings. vibrates. anticipation quells. communication. verbal caresses. some one to love. relief. she is safe. home. shoes off.

blessings. grace. apologies. release. bury the dead. rejoice. sit with the water. with a friend. make imaginary sculptures. abandon pride. discard anger. connect. begin. enjoy.

Wager Card

2007-11-26T16:50:00.000-08:00

W A G E R

(the pull out method)

ah yes. the pull out method. another excellent choice. whose idea. mine. o. terrific. traffic jam. just pull out. no problem. no aids. or AIDS. capital letters AIDS not aids like helpers. no invasive dis ease.s. no leaks. just put the head in. pull out. remove it. re move. to move again. re-. before blasting. off. out. pull out. like an astronaut. a military expedition. in the face. splat. ter.

pulling out. as in: stopping. not complete. leaving. good bye. see you. pull out. with effort. to pull. use strength. drag skin. effort. pull.ing. pulling out. as in: no longer in. out. side. away from. space. bet ween. now is a terrible time to wager. pull away. push toward. to push toward and then pull away. lean in. lean out. two hands. pull a rope. play tug of war with my insides.

pull out as a choice. yours. not mine. not excavated or exiled. not evicted. expunged. no military inside. pointing weapons. no agency of relief. pull out and come. somewhere. else. not her.e. come t.her.e. choose a.not.her. place. knot here.

Grafitti

2007-10-14T06:06:00.001-07:00

Perhaps none of you know this, perhaps many of you do: There is a graffiti war taking place in Jersey City as we speak. Last night I entered it.

Grafitti is an art form that, like other art forms, arises out of an attempt to speak -- or an attempt to be heard. As an attempt to exist. We make art, write poems, create sculptures because for some reason, we are compelled to create.

Many people have frowned upon my insistence that NO GRAFFITI IS BAD GRAFFITI, even if the text or images are profane, obscene, hateful, or inciteful. (Most grafitti is not the aforementioned -- but when it is, it calls attention to a person that needs embracing, or it is a call to a community to respond with dignity and strength, which, in general, they do.)

Graffiti makers are sometimes artists (as in http://www.graffiti.org/cinci/cinci_16.html), and sometimes graffiti makers are simply people who have something to say. Maybe the painter wants to say "I exist -- and even though no one seems to see me, or care about me -- I still exist and I am going to write my name on this wall to prove it." Maybe the painter wants to say, "I am so angry about X and I have a need to respond to it in a very public way." Maybe the painter chose this medium out of a love for spray paint, or maybe the painter chose it because oil paints (27$ a tube) are three times the price of a good can of spray paint (8$ a can).

Any artist, actor, musician or poet will tell you, "I am a (writer.) I have no choice." This drive to art exists as frequently and as fervently in multi-racial teenagers from "bad neighborhoods" as it does from white girls from Rochester, NY. My artwork (the books I've recently send to many of you) has no greater value than the "BAM" tag on the bridge. I write poems because I cannot stop myself. I am constantly attempting to exist in a public way, or at least in a way that forces other people to acknowledge me. The same is true of the graffiti artist.

Last night I put down my pretension and picked up my paint.

Unlike multi-racial teenagers from "bad neighborhoods," I was never looked at suspiciously by passerbys. No one called the cops on me. Police presence was minimal, and even when I did see a police officer, he didn't slow down and ask me for information (I was being discreet, I didn't spray paint right in front of a cop, I had a great lookout person -- BUT -- the reason the cop didn't stop me was because of my race and my gender, along with the fact that I was in a rich white neighborhood.)

The minute I realized I was going to paint in public (illegally), I had a greater respect for the "BAM" tags hastily written on the bridge.

1. It's scary (even for a white girl) to tag. It's illegal. Cops are super-scary. It takes a certain level of courage. (Especially for a teenager, especially for a teenager of color, especially for any person who has any reason to fear the police, especially for any person who has heard of Sean Bell or Amadou Diallo and empathizes with their particular brand of police terrorism.)

2. Spray paint is a difficult tool to manipulate. You have to shake it to get a good and steady stream, but there's a metal ball inside the can which makes a lot of noise when you shake it, thus calling attention to yourself -- which is scary (see 1.)

3. It leaks all over your hands. Even if you're careful. You have to either wear gloves or get inked. Both have downsides.

4. You can't erase mistakes, and you generally only have a very small window of time to complete your project. Your work has to be precise.

5. It smells. It is highly flammible. The can I was using contains an ingredient which the State of California (or "California") has decided can cause cancer.

The hope is this: Next time you see a piece of graffiti -- stop. Look at it. How big is it? How long did it take to put that there? What does it say? What was the artist trying to say? What was so important that s/he risked arrest or police violence to make that statement? Make a compassionate assumption. Err on the side of understanding.

(even if the person wrote "BITCH" or "Mel is a BITCH" -- allow that uncomfortable moment to explain that the person who wrote it was really mad at mel. Maybe mel is their boss, and denied a promotion. Maybe mel is the lover who broke their trust. Maybe mel is a pseudonym for "how come my mother never loved me?")

peace.
resist.
engage.

Presence: A Collaboration

2007-09-26T08:48:00.000-07:00

Presence

photography by Scott LaForce
text by mel kozakiewicz

The cornfield is dark. I create a connection with a being whose language I do not speak.

No entiendo. Tenderness. His shadow stands alone, as if I have entered him. He is a fantasy of a man, or I am. My crutches stand without support, embodied by spirits translated long ago by Ngozi and Keisha.

Today the tree survives only under foot, but the shadow of its former vibrance refuses to submit. Refuses death. Far from our body there is an abundance of hidden faces, each studying our gesture of silence. The focus is on the scarcity. On the light.

We come across a refridgerator, where we commence our dance. He removes the doors and props them up against its shoulders, dressing it. He is proud of the space he has altered. I say mire esto but he monopolizes our mouth. I approach the piece of paper which diagrams the inner workings of the subject but he adjusts the shelves, caresses their edge.

We move through wet grass. The light is permanent. We evade its weight. My comfort grows in the impossibility of our union, my corporeal disappearance.

The cows startle me. I cower inside his breath. Lights interrogate his intentions, but he is confident. He asks where I have gone. He cannot find me amidst the cows. The energies have muddled. The pungence in his nose empowers me to occupy his throat. He gags. The walls volley the sound like a ball.

I do not know how long I will rest inside him. He scratches at our feet. The hay is sharp. What restrains the cows? Is there contentment?