midwives and the hemlock cure

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you who study Latin tend to make poor
doctors, restricted to just your little

world of what’s been tagged and named you ignore
all that’s unspoken and unconquerable

the realms that you must enter but cannot
name — you do not need to disrobe for me

to treat your affected areas — rot
hides in more places than just bones — dream tea

sedation, the hemlock cure, I will go
into the shadow realm for you, consult

that which protects you, that which is causing
you ill — cures might be nameless but I know

they’re still there, like germs even when the culte
des hommes
declared that there was no such thing.

][][

notes:

“Through the late Middle Ages [in Europe], the use of Latin, like the persecution of midwives as witches, became just one more safe-guard guaranteeing a strict hierarchy … with what would become, and still is, the modern male doctor at the top.”
— Chinarski, Harold. (1994). “Quand les femmes étaient sages: la chasse aux sorcières et de la hausse du médecin de sexe masculin moderne.” Journal calais d’Histoire de la Médecine 83 (1): 188–195.

“It’s commonly [known that] the midwife is meddlesome and has her [hand] in everything. That is why she busies herself so much with the art of witchcraft and superstitions and [moves] hither and thither, speaking of things no man can name.”
—Fragmented sermon by Martin Luther, translated and quoted in Diane Muliebris’ “Luther Und der weibliche Teufel,” first published in Marni Siskin and Brígida Rita Rocha (eds.), Gendercide: die Geschichte der europäischen Krieg auf Frauen. (Zenski Mudrost, ltd., Belgrade 1969), pp. 112-113.

the taste of deadweight on your tongue

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take it for it makes me appreciate
all that I’ve earned all that has been taken

from me, needled, punctured, lick the deadweight
dripping from my fingers a valve broken

cannot stop steadfast with the oyster knife
in one hand I want to be filleted raw

fed to you a piece at a time taste strife
and shit at each bite, sup me down and gnaw

the bones you’ve cut me deeper than the groove
from a Swiss-made blade, you must drain my skull’s

juice, you must flay me, because you must know
that I earned all of this, because once you’ve

consumed me you will find my initials
etched in your fear, in your deepest marrow

nerdy and curvy

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Was it the “jinkies”? Maybe the glasses?
The knee-high socks? The skirt that never once

flipped up despite all the haunted houses
that she explored? There was an innocence

each time she ended up on hands and knees,
searching for her glasses and the campy,

rubber monster would appear. She would squeeze
its hand: “Shaggy! you’re so cold and clammy!”

Velma Dinkley, out of all the sublime
cartoon girls, was the one I could relate

to. Short, plump, maybe bi with dreadful eyes,
she was nerdy and curvy at a time

when no one was; with her orange jailbait
turtleneck, Mary Janes and chubby thighs.

everybody knows that the

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bigger the pervert the more tyrannous
are their gods keeping tempting blasphemes

at bay there’s not a single monstrous
bible-thumper whose erotic day-dreams

if they were known could set the skies on fire
with shock and horror that’s just how boring

they are I’ve no problem with desire
our two tongues delicately slithering

gagging down your syrupy sex eager
barbaric yawps until at last you squirt

over me pity the so-called faithful
who have no faith in themselves or pleasure

who must take these divine gifts and pervert
them no wonder their god is so wrathful

spectral saliva on my lips

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Dec 22, 2013 (1)

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][][

I love you better than
that girl and her orphan

boy at the railing
of the paddle boat, steam

and straw hats and dickies
a shower of rice push

through my skin thin fabric
you pull out in the places

and plumb the drifts
down the coast I bend

down the blade where
you whispered is so sharp

it burns my neck skin on
my body all upset Saul

spectral saliva on my lips
gasping I kiss your open

blood bliss you’ve
just gone numb

zora neale huston

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Dec 20, 2013 (8)

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(January 7, 1891 – January 28, 1960) was an American folklorist, anthropologist, author, working during the time of the Harlem Renaissance. Of Hurston’s four novels and more than 50 published short stories, plays, and essays, she is perhaps best known for her 1937 novel Their Eyes Were Watching God.

Despite her skill and talent she did not receive the sort of fame and support other male members of the Harlem Renaissance. This was due to many factors. Readers at the time objected to the representation of African-American dialect in her novels, claiming it as a caricature of African-American culture rooted in a racist tradition. Critics such as Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison charged that her work wasn’t “political and as a result there are no theme, no message, no thought [in Hurston’s work].” Hurston last years were marked with extreme poverty, working as a maid and finally dying homeless.

Many years after her death an article, “In Search of Zora Neale Hurston,” by Alice Walker, revived interest in her work. Other authors such as Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, championed her work as well. One modern critic has pointed out that “[Wright and Ellison], while interested in that which fit into their narrow view of ‘political’ but were quick to dismiss anything written by a woman, especially a woman who might question their own prejudices and views.” In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante listed Zora Neale Hurston on his list of 100 Greatest African Americans.

daughters of the kaiten: female deep sea divers in art

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Dec 20, 2013 (1)

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note:

The Kaiten (回天), a Japanese term, loosely translated means, “Heaven Shaker” or “Change the World.” Ultimately it was the term used to describe human-torpedoes and other suicide-craft used by the Imperial Japanese Navy in the final stages of World War II. I use it here because it has a far older meaning that has since been lost, that of doing something so spectacular it changes the heavens and the seas forever.

The images used here are of various experimental deep sea scuba diving suits, though the last is of the 1880 actress Sarah Bernhardt in a diving suit while playing the role of the Ocean Empress (photographer unknown).

you, me and margo channing

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Dec 18, 2013 (3)

It was those thousand years of poetry
before “cocksucker” appeared in print, back

when Free Verse was the bad boy with acne
and brylcreem. When simply writing, “sick,” “smack,”

“junk,” “cunt,” made you historic. Those twee times,
niminy-piminy with dead white dollops

and all that rot. Poems should work like lines
of pure cocaine. If they don’t fuck you up

then its crap. I want verse that you must rinse
in blood to understand, cut all the rust

of your tum to open. Write lines demanding
guts. Yours. Spilled like great art. But I’m crap since

I can’t figure out how to do that just
now you’ll have to settle for this warning.

and a little more of my childhood dies

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Dec 18, 2013 (1)

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“don’t worry, we did just fine …”

ah, grief. this is my teddy bear. he’s 43 years-old, given to my by my uncle on the day of my birth. i’m sharing him with you because we all have something that we love and keep secret from everyone else. i don’t even know who is reading this but, please, when my time comes as it does for everyone please make sure he’s buried with me. i do not want to spend eternity without at least one friend by my side.