Presentation is Everything

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.

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

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

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

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