Someone downtown bought a new refrigerator and I carried the large cardboard box upstairs to my apartment. Lined with blankets and pillows it was the perfect marsupial pouch for the new poetry exercise. I punched a hole in the back and inserted a baby bottle filled with soy milk to suck on. Just outside the box DVD's of Pasolini's films played, first The Decameron, then The Canterbury Tales. An entire world of human sexual intrigue and treachery outside, my, warm, pouch, here, I, am. HOW do I make the world comfortable everyday I ask myself? HOW do I manage to get up in the morning KNOWING that my taxes pay for bullets and bombs to kill the people of Iraq and Afghanistan? In 2009 three children died every single day in Afghanistan from war-related injuries. HOW did I not kill myself with worry and guilt? HOW often do I think about being complicit in the degradation of life on earth? My boyfriend came over, we played Pasolini's SALO OR 120 DAYS OF SODOM. We removed the baby bottle from the back of my cardboard pouch and my boyfriend used it as a glory hole.
Graffiti around his cock AND THEN little wigs for its head made of cotton and pillow stuffing. I glued a frame around the hole, asked him to back up and enter again slower, slowly, a portrait of a cannon at the castle gates maybe? YES! Finding the spaces between hating this world, finding and loving those spaces. Today. Tomorrow. It's going to become a poem from the pouch. My cardboard Momma, Pasolini, and the glory hole of a beautiful marsupial afternoon. Thanks to you who make things delicious and wonderful. Without you despair would appreciate its earnings. Notes from this day are to become a poem.
