treat me with honor and she degrades me because o f money
and I cannot forgive it. I am learning that inside something
goes w rong when something w rong happens; I am learning to
follow it, the feeling. I say I write and it is first and I have thirty
dollars I can find, not sixty, and I do not say how much I give
up to give her the thirty because to do so would be demeaning
in m y heart, the sick feeling would come on, and she belittles
me and I leave and I never turn back. D o not mess with me. I
am making a plan in writing to make the men shed tears o f
remorse and I cannot waste m y time with someone insufficient; she has to deserve me too; I want respect; there’s a piece missing in her— what’s hunger, what’s poor; it’s the pieces I
got; I can’t explain how what’s a blind spot in her blindsides
me; I can’t have her talk money to me which she measures one
w ay and I measure in sucking dicks, the economy as I see it,
how long on your knees, how many times, equals a meal,
makes the rent. I ain’t saying it to her, it’s an inchoate rage, but
I turn over inside; Sensei eats shit. I say nothing, because she’s
an innocent, she counts money dry, not drenched in sperm. I
cut her o ff without another word. She is out o f my life. I don’t
look back. I paid, sister, I am paid up in dues well into the next
century, I have clear priorities, she was number two, pretty
high on the fucking list; number one is that I am writing a plan
for revenge, a justice plan, a justice poem, a justice map, a
geography o f justice; I am martial in my heart and military in
my mind; I think in strategy and in poems, a daughter o f
Guevara and Whitman, ready to take to the hills with a cosmic
vision o f what’s crawling around down on the ground; a
daughter with an overview; the big view; a daughter with a
new practice o f righteous rage, against what ain’t named and
ain’t spoken so it can’t be prosecuted except by the one it was
done to who knows it, knows him; I’m inventing a new
practice o f random self-defense; I take their habits and
characteristics seriously, as enemy, and I plan to outsmart
them and win; they want to stay anonymous, monster
shadows, brutes, king pricks, they want to strike like lightning, any time, any place, they want to be sadistic ghosts in the dark with penises that slice us open, they want us dumb and
mute and vacant, robbed o f words, nothing has a name, not
anything they do to us, there’s nothing because w e’re nothing;
then they must mean they want us to strike them down,
indiscriminate, in the night; we require a sign language o f
rebellion; it’s the only chance they left us. Y ou may find me
one who ain’t guilty but you can’t find me two. I have a vision,
far into the future, a plan for an arm y for justice, a girls’ army,
subversive, on the ground, down and dirty, no uniforms, no
rank, no orders from on high, a martial spirit, a cadre o f
honor, an arm y o f girls spreading out over the terrain, I see
them m oving through the streets, thick formations o f them in
anarchy and freedom on cement. I keep practicing horse
position and sit-ups and I kick good; I can kick to the knee and
I can kick to the cock but I can’t kick to the solar plexus and I
can’t kick his fucking head o ff but I can compensate with my
intelligence and with m y right thinking if I can isolate it, in
other words, rescue it from the nightmares; liberate it; deep
liberation. I practice on m y wall to get m y kick higher, never
touching the wall, Zen karate, a new dimension in control and
a new level o f aggression, a new arena o f attack as if I am
walking up the wall without touching it; and I will do the same
to them; Zen killing. M y fist ain’t good enough but m y thighs
needless to say are superb, possibly even sublime, it’s been
noted many times. M any a man’s died his little death there and
I made the mistake o f not burying him when he was exactly
ripe for it, not putting him, whole, under the ground, but I
soaked up his soul, I took it like they always fear, I stole his
essence to in me, it’s protein, I got his molecules; and I never
died. It is more than relevant; it is the point. I never died. I am
not dead. If you use us up and use us up and use us up but don’t
kill us we ain’t dead, boys; a word to the wise; peace now, or
there’s a mean lot o f killing coming. I am torn up in many
places and I am a m oving mountain o f pain, I have tears body
and soul, I am marked and scarred and black-and-blue inside
and out, I got torn muscles in m y throat and blood that dried
there that w o n ’t ever dislodge and rips in m y vagina the size o f
fists and fissures in m y anus like rivers and holes in m y heart, a
sad heart; but I ain’t dead, I never died, which means, boys, I
can march, I want to walk to God on you, stretch you out
under me, a pathway to heaven. And I am real; Andrea one,
two, three, there’s more than one, I am reliably informed; the
raped; Andrea, named for courage, a new incarnation o f
virility, in the old days called manhood and I’m what happens
when it’s fucked; we go by other names, Sally, Jane, whatever;
but I had a prophet for a mama and she named not just a
daughter but a breed, who the girl is when the worm turns;
put Thomas Jefferson in my place, horse position on his back
with a mob o f erect rapists coming and going at will, at their
pleasure; and ask what a more perfect union is; or would be;
from his point o f view; then. Put anyone human where I been
and make a plan; for freedom. I will fill you with remorse
because you fucked me to ground meat and because you buy it
and you sell it and the hole in my heart is commerce to you;
lover, husband, boychick, brother, friend, political radical,
boy comrade; I can’t fucking tell you all apart. Y o u ’re
pouncing things that push it in,. lush with insult or austere with
pain; I don’t got no radio in my stomach like the crazy ones
who get messages to kill and can’t turn it o ff or dislodge it
although you stuck enough in me, they say they hear voices
and they kill, they say they are getting orders and they kill, and
the psychiatrists come in the newspapers and call them long
bad names and go to court and say they didn’t know what they
were doing; but they knew; because everyone knows. The
psychiatrists miss it all but especially that there’s information
everywhere; the radio, the voices, are metaphors used by
poets who dance rather than write it down, poet-killers; action
poems; there’s energy that buzzes, a coherent language o f