fuck beauty, just fuck them all. and i am beating against your stomach with everything and you are not even noticing as you enter into me and leave my lungs empty while you fill me up inside. i'm still raving as you rape me, pummeling and plummeting onto your heart. you know you like you say. and yes this is violence but aren't we the prettiest thing as we stand around fucking eachother.
thinking with my Dick.
Inside me is America. The fat ol' fatherland. See me clearly, now: Texas is my ass, by far the fattest state in this union. Travel up my arteries to find my golden GM heart, and hell, it's beating strong now but it'll never stand the stress of copulation. I have a soft spot for Seattle and my northwesterly neck. Down to California where the beauty is so bizzare but I ruin it all by pumping water in to fuel some rich kid's wet dreams and give him cement to build toy highways. On my other arm is concited Connecticut, where the ChemiLawns are green so the neighbors will be envious. Toothy New York where new things come in but I'll eat the poor for hors d'ouvers. Then to that crooked little finger that is the Cape; once I beckoned but my hand has taken away it's own namesake. My mind Is Amherst and Boston, where all the words are and race is still an issue. Vermont liberals are up there too, abhorring the rest of this blob that is my body. It is true that I have a healthy womb, but I'd better find a coathanger soon cause these blind eyes which are the government never let me see a condom. And I'll sleep with anybody because nobody seems to want to and I can always fuck them over good. These eyes are also bigger than my stomach (though not for long) and they keep feeding me burgers before telling Baja to poke my throat and I barf. And gee, those steroids must have been strong cause now my arms are so big I can take anything I want, cause I don't want anybody better than me. They will sing songs about me but those who can actually see don't sing those songs. Underneath that are my ribs, Appelaichans and the Rockies-the only things I think I can trust, because even though the first people and land were beautiful, that's all fenced in now on "reservations". Reservations because at least this country has some reservations about applying white concealer over our blotchy red skin. Yes, this is me. I was born this way but like America I deny it all. Yes, I am America.
In the summer, lime popsicles are a staple. When I walk in the door and the heat is still dragging my face to the floor and stuffing cotton down my lungs, I head for the freezer. And maybe it's a bad thing because they're sixty calories a pop and I will eat half a box in one sitting. I think: of all addictions, why this? But it's summer and almost any sin is forgivable. Except at night. Much as I despise this insipid season, it's a lover at night. The air is the only nightgown on my skin and my sins are sins as I look at my thighs. Moonlight slips through the screen and trees watch me as I repent. The crickets forgive me. On this evening I'd followed my mother and stepfather walking the dog in the Arboretum. I slid out of my flip flops and my skin as i am embraced by the ethers: the silent ghost child with only the pale hair. They tell me I was born in a heatwave.
Chesapeake Hannah Fulford First.